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At first, Aly — smart, sweet Aly — tells herself:
"Play it cool. You're the weird outsider here."
She knows the old rhythms of the Valley, the invisible lines tying people together.
Abigail and Sebastian — the childhood bond, the whispered rumors, the way they could fall into something messy and secret under the weight of rainy afternoons and broken dreams.
And Aly feels like she's the glitch in a code. An intruder in a song that was already halfway sung.
So she tries to be chill. No flirting. No heart-eyes. Just quiet kindness — a cup of coffee here, a sarcastic comment there, a smirk traded across the smoky air of the Saloon.
Inside, though? She's wrecked.
Because seeing Sebastian as this achingly human, with his tired jokes and twitchy smiles and the way he watches the mountains like they might swallow him whole — It hurts. It hurts so good she almost forgets to breathe.
Some nights, she catches glimpses she wishes she hadn’t. In a half-lit alley behind the Saloon, Abigail presses Sebastian up against the stone wall, her laughter breathless, his hands threading into her hair.
Aly freezes, heart hammering in her ribs like a bird desperate to get out. She tells herself to look away. She doesn't. She watches — just for a moment — until shame scorches her skin and she stumbles back into the darkness.
Later, when the Saloon has thinned out, Sebastian finds a stool at the far end of the bar. Aly sits across the room, clutching a mug she doesn’t remember ordering.
Their eyes meet once — a flash, a warning, a question. He looks away first, but not fast enough.
It’s raining when she walks home, the sky weeping quietly over the fields. Her body hums, restless, aching in a way that feels older than her own skin. In the small warmth of her rented farmhouse, Aly peels off her wet clothes, climbs into bed, and presses her hand against the place that throbs for him.
She imagines his mouth, his voice rough against her ear, his fingers finding her like he’s known her all along.
And when she finally breaks apart, it’s his name she bites into her pillow to keep from crying out.
[---]
The days start to stack up like mismatched coins.
Aly catches him in fragments — smoke curling from between his fingers as he leans against the blackened side of his house, the worn strings of his hoodie sleeves twisted between restless hands.
"Hey," she says once, stepping over a stray garden hose.
Sebastian startles like he forgot the world existed outside his cloud of smoke. He grunts something that might be a greeting, flicks ash onto the dirt, and shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other.
Small talk is a foreign language between them, clumsy and halting. Aly asks about his bike, about the mountains, about the code he works on late into the night — and Sebastian fumbles through answers, scratching the back of his neck, giving her half-smiles that don't quite reach his eyes.
But he doesn't leave. Not right away.
Another afternoon, she finds him near the cliffs, boots dangling over the sharp drop. He watches her approach, something unreadable flashing in his eyes, like he's weighing the risk of letting her into the soft spaces he guards so viciously.
"Out of all the places you could live, why'd you choose Pelican Town?" he asks, voice low, skeptical. Like he can't imagine anyone willingly sinking into a place so small, so forgotten.
Aly shrugs, sitting beside him. "Tired of feeling like noise in a city full of louder people," she says simply.
He nods once, like maybe he understands that better than she thinks. Maybe better than anyone.
And little by little, he stops looking for exits. The conversations stretch longer. He smirks more, even laughs once — this quiet, surprised sound that leaves Aly feeling dizzy with the weight of it.
Sometimes, she catches him looking at her when he thinks she isn’t paying attention — his gaze lingering, curious and unguarded. It lights her up from the inside out.
And then, one day, he lingers after a conversation. Doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t shove his hands into his pockets and mumble about needing to "work on code."
Instead, he kicks a rock with the toe of his boot, glances at her sideways, like the sun’s too bright behind her head.
"You’re... different," he mutters, voice rough, like it hasn't been used for something soft in years. "I don’t know. It's... easier, when you're around."
Aly barely breathes. Something hot and trembling unfurls inside her chest, a wild, reckless thing. She opens her mouth to say something — anything — but Sebastian’s already looking away, scuffing his boot against the dirt like he regrets letting the words slip out.
And then he’s gone, hoodie trailing behind him, leaving her standing there, heart hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to break free.
The walk home is a blur. The fields blur. The stars blur.
In the low light of her farmhouse, Aly strips off her clothes, shivering under the sudden rush of cool air. She slips between the sheets, the fabric rough against her flushed skin, and lets her fingers drift lower, tracing the ache that’s been burning through her all evening.
"You're different. It's easier, when you're around."
His voice is still tangled in her ears, rough and unsure, like he doesn’t know how much he’s given her. She closes her eyes and imagines his hands instead of her own — awkward and a little clumsy at first, like their conversations, but soon sure, rough fingertips learning her in slow, reverent sweeps. Imagines his mouth pressed against her collarbone, the way he’d breathe her in like she’s a secret he needs to keep.
Her back arches off the bed, desperate and wanting, chasing the heat building in her belly. It’s his name again — a whisper this time, broken in the dark — that tips her over the edge. A soft, shuddering release that leaves her gasping, trembling, hollowed out in the best, worst way.
Afterward, she lays there, staring at the ceiling, letting the ache settle into her bones. Some part of her knows this is dangerous — knows she’s already too far gone.
But the rest of her? The rest of her just wants more.
[---]
It had been raining all day. The kind of rain that doesn’t fall, but clings — heavy and stubborn, like the sky itself couldn’t bear to let go.
Aly trudged through the mud, boots squelching, the brim of her borrowed hat drooping under the weight of water.
She hadn’t meant to find him. She was just wandering. Trying to bleed out the feelings before they ate her alive.
But there he was.
Sebastian.
Sitting on the cracked stones under the old railroad bridge, smoke curling lazy from a cigarette forgotten between two fingers, staring at the river like it had personally betrayed him.
Aly froze. For a second, the smart move — the safe move — was to leave. Let him have his melancholy. Let herself keep her heart intact.
But he looked so damn lost. So unbearably human it hurt to look at him.
So she moved. Quietly. Sat down a few feet away — not touching, not speaking. Just there. A silent offering.
He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t flinch either. Small victories.
Minutes ticked by, stretched thin and fragile as spider silk. Then, out of nowhere, his voice cut through the rain:
"I thought about leaving once." Gravel and smoke and something dangerously close to hope in his voice. "Packing up. Getting on my bike. Just... going. Not even telling anyone."
Aly hugged her knees to her chest, heart hammering hard enough she was sure he could hear it.
"Why didn’t you?" she asked, voice soft, barely breathing.
Sebastian shrugged. Flicked ash into the river. "Didn’t think anyone would notice if I was gone. Figured maybe... maybe that’s what I wanted." A bitter little laugh scraped out of him.
"Turns out it’s not as romantic as it sounds. Being invisible."
Aly wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him, to pull him into herself and pour all her stubborn, stupid hope straight into his veins. "I see you. I see you. I would notice." But the words tangled in her throat, too big, too wild, too dangerous.
Instead, she said, "You’d leave a hole so big it’d flood the valley."
And it came out raw, trembling, almost angry.
He looked at her then. Really looked. Dark eyes pinning her in place, like she was something strange and precious and terrifying, something he didn’t dare touch in case it shattered.
For a heartbeat, the whole world stilled. The rain blurred into mist. The river forgot to flow. The sadness slipped between them, a secret only they could hear.
Sebastian dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under his boot. Inhaled sharply, like he was about to say something — something that would change everything — but instead, he folded inward. Rested his forehead against his knees, arms wrapping tight around himself like he could hold his own breaking pieces together.
"I’m tired, Aly," he said, voice cracking open on her name. "I’m so tired of feeling like I’m never enough. For anything. For anyone."
Something inside her broke — not loud, not violent. Just a quiet snap, like a branch giving under too much snow.
Without thinking, without breathing, she scooted closer. Wrapped her arms around him.
Felt him stiffen — a held breath, a trapped animal — and then, slowly, painfully, melt against her. Like a wild thing that had finally, finally decided to trust the hand reaching out.
They sat there, two broken pieces pressed together under the weeping sky.
And Aly — for all her warnings, for all her promises to stay detached, to be smart — knew with a soul-deep certainty she was doomed. Completely, beautifully, tragically doomed.
[---]
The next few days were a mess. Not the kind of mess you could sweep under the rug. The kind where every look, every almost-touch, felt loud enough to shake the whole damn town.
At the Saloon, Aly would catch Sebastian’s eyes across the smoky room — dark, searching, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t remember building. On the trail, they'd pass close enough to brush shoulders, and a glance would tangle between them, thick and heavy as wet wool.
Even Abigail noticed.
One night, she nudged Sebastian with her elbow, raising a sharp brow while he scowled and muttered something Aly couldn’t catch. Abigail’s laugh was brittle. Sad.
Almost like she knew she’d already lost.
Aly pretended it didn’t wreck her. Pretended she didn’t glance up at his window when she walked past the carpenter’s house — didn’t hope for a glimpse of him hunched over his laptop, smoke rising in lazy spirals like ghost-words into the dark.
She kept busy. Watering crops. Fixing fences. Pretending her heart wasn’t a live wire sparking every time she thought about that night under the bridge — his voice, his trembling weight leaning into her.
But the storm — the real storm — broke three days later.
(...)
She found him on the cliffs, staring out over the valley. The rain had started again — soft, steady, the kind that soaks you through before you even realize it.
No words at first. Just the tap of rain against rock. The low hum of the river far below.
Aly came to stand beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him in the cool, misty air. Close enough to want things she wasn’t supposed to want.
For a moment she said nothing. Then — like it had been burning a hole in her mouth for days — she asked, voice barely a whisper:
"You used to go out with Abigail."
Sebastian flinched, just a little. Didn’t look at her. Shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunching against the question.
A beat. A breath.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice low, almost lost to the rain. "We... tried."
Aly swallowed hard, her pulse roaring loud enough to drown out everything else. The rain slid down her face, masking the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks.
"Why don’t you anymore?"
He huffed out a breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Like it hurt to even say it.
"She says I’m hard to handle."
Something twisted deep inside Aly — sadness, anger, something fierce and wild she didn’t dare name. She could feel it clawing at her throat. Could feel her hands curling into fists at her sides.
Without thinking — without planning — she turned to him. Tilted her head. Let a half-smirk flicker across her lips, all fire and foolishness and aching affection.
"She’s right," Aly said.
Sebastian blinked. Finally looked at her — really looked — like she’d just yanked the ground out from under him. Rain dripped from his bangs. His jaw tightened, breath catching somewhere between a scoff and a grin.
For one charged heartbeat, the whole valley narrowed to nothing but that look. That impossible, wild, terrifying look.
"Yeah?" he said, voice rough, daring her.
Aly shrugged, playful, reckless, utterly doomed. "You’re a pain in the ass." She smiled — small, soft, devastating. "But... you’re worth it."
And something in Sebastian’s face cracked. Broke open. Softened, like maybe — just maybe — he believed her. Or desperately wanted to.
The rain poured harder, blurring the edges of the world. Neither of them moved. Neither of them needed to.
The real storm wasn’t falling from the sky. It was raging, quiet and terrible, in the spaces between their hearts.
(...)
The rain hadn't stopped all night.
Aly sat by the fire, nursing a mug she barely tasted, staring at the door like it might sprout wings and fly open. She told herself she wasn’t waiting.
(She was lying.)
Three sharp knocks. She jumped, heart in her throat, mug forgotten on the table.
When she yanked open the door, there he was.
Sebastian. Soaked to the bone, hoodie clinging to his frame, black hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he’d run all the way here. Eyes wild and wrecked in the firelight.
For a second — nothing. Just breathing. Just burning.
Then, voice low and shaking, almost angry, he said, "I can't stop thinking about you."
And before Aly could even breathe, he moved. Grabbed her jacket. Dragged her into a kiss so desperate it knocked the breath from her lungs.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy and hungry and human.
Their teeth clashed. She gasped against his mouth, and he groaned — low and broken — like he’d been holding himself back for months and just snapped.
His hands fisted in her damp hair, gripped her waist, clutching like he was afraid she might vanish. Aly clutched his hoodie, yanking him closer, feeling the way he shuddered under her touch — like she was dangerous and vital all at once.
Rain pounded the roof. Thunder rumbled, low and close, like it knew exactly what they were doing.
He kissed her like he was starving. And Aly kissed him back just as hard, matching him fire for fire, burning herself alive to keep him warm.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, their breaths tangled in the heavy, electric air.
Sebastian rasped, voice wrecked: "Tell me to leave. If you don’t..." He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Aly smiled — slow, devastating — and whispered against his lips: "Stay."
He barely registered the word before she was pulling him back in, crashing their mouths together like the last two pieces of a shattering world.
This time was worse — or better — depending how you measured ruin.
There was nothing shy now. Only frantic, greedy kisses that left them gasping. His hands slid under her shirt, fingertips tracing trembling lines up her back, pulling her flush against him like he could fuse them if he just tried hard enough.
Aly’s fingers tangled in his soaked hoodie, tugging until she found skin — hot and shivering under her touch. The door slammed behind them, maybe from the storm, maybe from their bodies. Neither cared.
Sebastian groaned into her mouth — a wrecked, broken sound — tasting of rain, smoke, and something that felt a lot like drowning.
He kissed down her jawline, her neck — frantic, reverent — like he had to memorize every inch of her before the world swallowed them whole.
"God, Aly," he rasped. "You don't even know what you're doing to me."
"Then show me," she whispered, reckless, trembling.
And he did.
He kissed her harder — teeth dragging her bottom lip into a whimper — and that sound shattered him. He grabbed her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, pinning her against the door, kissing her like he could etch her into his bones.
Aly’s hands scrambled at his hoodie, pulling it up, fingertips skating over his stomach where his shirt rode up — and Sebastian shuddered, a ragged sound escaping him like he was falling apart under her desperate, clumsy touch.
The rain roared on the roof. Inside, they burned. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat and mouth-on-mouth desperation. There was nothing but the slick slide of their lips, and the silent, savage promise in the way he held her — like he was never letting her go again.
He pinned her tighter, kissed her messier, hands sliding up under her shirt, warm palms against damp, overheated skin — greedy, trembling, worshipful. He needed more. All of her.
His kisses grew messier, more urgent, bruising in their hunger. Aly gasped against his mouth as he fumbled with her jacket, shoving it off her shoulders without breaking the kiss, like he couldn’t bear to lose contact even for a second.
It was clumsy — desperate — like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to map her inch by inch or tear her apart and rebuild her from scratch.
Aly whimpered into his mouth — and God — Sebastian shuddered like she’d touched a live wire. His fingertips trailed up her sides, skimming her ribs, memorizing her by feel alone.
Pulling back just barely, panting, wild-eyed, he rasped, his voice shredded raw: "Okay?"
Aly nodded — frantic, aching — and grabbed at the hem of his soaked hoodie, dragging it up. He yanked it off, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.
The firelight caught on the curve of his shoulders, the hard dip of his waist — and for one wrecked heartbeat, Aly just stared, overwhelmed by the realness of him.
She touched him like she was afraid he might dissolve — palms flat against his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart under her fingertips.
Sebastian cursed under his breath, low and wrecked, and dipped his head to kiss her again — this time slower, deeper — his hands sliding down to her hips, fingers digging in, pulling her against him so there was no space left between them. He wanted to taste every part of her.
Their bodies aligned like puzzle pieces just slightly forced — rough edges scraping, sparking, desperate to fit.
Aly arched into him instinctively, and he moaned — half-groan, half-whimper — the sound tearing straight through her. He buried his face against her neck like he was breaking apart just from feeling her.
The rain pounded the roof. The storm raged outside. Inside, only heat. Only heartbeats. Only the terrible, beautiful truth of wanting something too much to survive it.
They stumbled toward the bed, gasping between kisses, tripping over the fever of want. His hands found her waist, her back, her thighs — greedy and gentle at once — like he couldn't decide if he wanted to hold her or consume her.
Aly fumbled at his jeans — laughing softly at how frantic it all felt — a wild, stupid, beautiful mess, desperate and shaky — a dance of please, please, more.
Sebastian caught her wrists — not stopping her, just grounding her, holding them gently, tenderly — forehead to hers, panting.
Breathless.
"Are you sure?" he whispered, voice broken and real.
Aly answered by kissing him — deep, slow, sure — a kiss that said: I’m already yours.
Sebastian kissed along her jawline, down her neck, trembling hands slipping higher, under her shirt again — "You—" kiss "drive me—" kiss "fucking insane." kiss.
Aly’s nails scraped lightly down his back, and he swore, breathless, like he was losing the last shreds of whatever self-control he'd been clinging to.
Whatever held him back snapped clean in two. He helped her strip, fingers trembling — shirts, jeans, sliding the zipper down with agonizing slowness, knuckles brushing against her lower stomach, making her gasp softly — skin against skin, heat against heat.
He pushed her gently onto the bed — crawling over her, kissing her like he wanted to rebuild himself inside her.
Aly arched up, moaning against his mouth, every grind of their hips sending sparks ricocheting through her nerves as he pressed against her — slow, grinding movements that sent sparks up her spine, each shift of their bodies dragging sweet, unbearable friction between them. His hands were on her waist, her ribs, skimming trembling lines across bare skin.
"Fuck," he breathed against her collarbone, voice shaking, "you feel so good."
They were dangerously close to the edge now — that trembling, aching place where too much would never be enough.
And neither of them wanted to stop.
Aly’s fingers dug into his back, pulling him closer, anchoring herself to the overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful reality of him.
Not enough, never enough — hips pressed together, mouths clashing in kisses that were more heat than technique, more desperation than precision.
They moved together — slow at first, then faster, more urgent — hips rocking in rhythm, the thin layers of clothing still between them almost unbearable, almost sacred, mouths clashing, lost in the rain and the heat and the need to be seen.
It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just need.
It was something deeper — a raw, bone-deep ache to be seen, to be held, to be wanted exactly as they were. It was survival.
Imperfect. Messy. Real.
The room was hot, heavy with the smell of rain and skin and something too holy to name.
Sebastian lifted his head, meeting her eyes — dark, wrecked, shining, utterly undone — and rasped, "Tell me if I need to stop."
"Don’t you dare," Aly breathed.
And she dragged him back into a kiss that tasted like rain, and ruin, and reckless, beautiful love.