Sebastian Blake – First Person
I hadn't meant to get into a fight.I didn't even remember throwing the first punch.
But the moment Carter—some arrogant cartel heir with too much cologne and too little fear—ran his mouth about Ray, I blacked out.
Now my knuckles were split open, raw and stinging, the smell of iron trailing me like perfume.The elevator doors opened with a whisper. I stepped into the penthouse—silent, clinical, cold.
And then I saw her.
Ray.
Wrapped in a bubblegum-pink fleece blanket on my leather couch like she belonged there, sipping something hot from a cat mug twice the size of her face. She had a plush rabbit tucked under one arm, bare feet tucked beneath her, long black hair tied up messily with a glittery scrunchie.
Like something out of a fever dream.
She looked up. Her eyes widened. Her smile dropped.
"Sebastian?"
She bolted upright, the blanket tangling around her legs.
"Oh my God—are you bleeding?"
"It's fine."
"No, it's not," she snapped, already halfway across the room. "You're dripping on the floor. You need antiseptic. Where do you even keep first aid stuff?"
She was tugging me by the wrist, muttering to herself like a hurricane with a ponytail. "Of course you don't keep it in the bathroom, you're a man. No offense. Okay, some offense. Sit. Kitchen. Now."
I blinked. "You're ordering me around in my own penthouse?"
"Duh," she said, pushing me onto the barstool like I was a misbehaving dog. "You're clearly not qualified to look after yourself."
She flung open a drawer. Nothing.
Cabinet. Nada.
Then she gasped—victory.
From somewhere I had never noticed—a bright pink box.
A Hello Kitty first aid kit.
No. God, no.
"You keep that here?" I asked, horrified.
"Oh no," she said cheerfully. "I brought it. You didn't have anything, remember? Every house needs one. Mine's upgraded—see, strawberry-scented wipes and glitter bandages. Limited edition."
She said that like it made perfect sense.
I watched, stunned, as she laid everything out like she was prepping for war: tweezers, antiseptic spray, cotton balls, some sort of unicorn-patterned gauze.
She grabbed my wrist with surprisingly gentle fingers. "This might sting. Be brave."
I said nothing.
Then she dabbed the alcohol on my broken skin.
I flinched. She didn't say anything, just blew gently on the cut.
"You okay?" she asked softly, her voice dipping. For once, no yapping. Just worry. "You didn't say anything when you walked in. You looked...far away."
I didn't answer.
Didn't know how to.
My whole life, pain was meant to be swallowed. Fought through. Hidden. Not bandaged with glitter.
Not tended to by a girl in fuzzy socks with chocolate on her chin.
She wrapped gauze with careful precision.
Her eyes flicked up to mine once.
And something in her face changed—like she saw something in me no one else ever had.
Not power.
Not fear.
Not violence.
But...tiredness.
Loneliness.
Bleeding, bone-deep silence.
Then came the final insult.
The bandaid.
A neon pink one.
With cartoon bunnies.
"Ray—"
"Shhh. It suits you."
"It absolutely does not."
"I said shhh."
She pressed it onto my skin like it was a sacred ritual, smiled proudly, and gave my hand a little pat.
"There. All better."
I looked at her.
At the girl who talked too much and cared too loud. Who came from hell but still smiled like the sun. Who was now standing in my kitchen, healing me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And I felt something crack. Quietly. Internally. Irreversibly.
"You need to be careful," she said softly, voice wobbling just a little. "You act like nothing touches you, but you're not made of stone, Sebastian. You bleed. You hurt. Just like the rest of us. So stop making it so hard for people to care."
She didn't mean it like that.
She didn't realize what she was saying.
But I did.
I swallowed hard. Looked down at her tiny fingers still wrapped around mine.
And for the first time in years—I let myself nod.
Small. Honest.
No walls. No mask.
Just: okay.
She lit up like a Christmas tree. "Good."
Then she let go, turned away, humming some nonsense under her breath. Something about ramen noodles and how I was out of marshmallows.
But I stayed seated. Hand resting on the counter.
The stupid glitter bandaid catching the light.
And for once in my life—I didn't rip it off.