If Guilt Had a Face, It’d Be Smiling

Sebastian Maddox's Point of View

New York City — Maddox Penthouse, 11:48 PM

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I still taste her on my tongue.

Vanilla lip gloss and vodka.

She moaned my name like she meant it—but she didn't even know my real one.

I don't remember hers either.

I take the stairs two at a time. Elevator's too slow when you're trying to outrun shame. My shirt still smells like smoke and club lights and someone else's perfume. My jacket's half soaked from the rain.

I don't care.

I slide the key into the penthouse door like muscle memory, eyes half-closed, breath low. And I pray—just this once—that she's asleep.

She's not.

She's on the couch.

Asleep, yeah. But not in bed.

A throw blanket clutched around her shoulders, arms folded like she was waiting. There's a tray on the table. Two plates, both covered in foil. Candles burnt down to nothing. Music still playing softly in the background. Some French playlist.

I stop cold.

My hands go stiff at my sides. My jaw locks. My pulse drops.

Fuck.

She waited.

My mother waited up for me. Again.

Even after I told her not to.

I walk past her as quietly as I can, heading to my room, hoping maybe I can slide by unnoticed. But the second my foot creaks against the hardwood—

"Sebby?"

That sleepy voice.

So soft. So happy. So relieved.

"Hey," I mutter. I force my mouth into a half-smile, keeping my face turned just slightly, so the faint lipstick smear on my jaw won't catch the light.

"Did you just get home?" she asks, blinking, rubbing her eyes. Her hair's all over the place. Messy bun falling out. Hoodie way too big. Bunny socks. The whole domestic package.

"Yeah," I lie.

She doesn't ask from where. She never does.

"I made your favorite," she says, standing up way too fast and wobbling toward the kitchen. "That truffle pasta with the mushroom cream sauce—and! I even got that stupidly overpriced peach gelato from Italy you begged for—remember?"

I nod. I don't.

Some part of me hates her for still trying so hard.

She starts plating the food again. I sit at the counter, eyes blank, mind replaying how I'd had some stranger girl pressed up against a bathroom wall an hour ago. She'd whispered all kinds of filthy promises, and I hadn't even heard them. Not really. I'd just needed the noise.

Now there's silence again.

And Sky.

Smiling at me like I'm still her baby.

"I washed your bedsheets today," she says suddenly, almost shyly. "You sleep so much better in clean linen. And I put those lavender sachets in the pillows again. Do you still like those?"

"Yeah," I say. I hate lavender.

She finally sits across from me and just... watches. Like feeding me is the highlight of her day.

I take a bite. It's incredible. She always cooks like she's feeding someone she's in love with.

And that makes it worse.

"Did you have a good day?" she asks.

I swallow.

Barely.

"Sure."

Her face lights up like it means something. "I'm glad. You've been so quiet lately, I was starting to worry. But—" she cuts herself off with a laugh. "You're probably just tired of your mom smothering you twenty-four-seven, huh?"

I give her the smile she wants.

The kind that says, You're perfect. You're enough.

Even though I'm already thinking about texting Demi again just to feel numb.

She yawns. "Okay, I'm going to bed. But I'm serious, Sebastian. Don't stay up too late. And don't forget to drink some water."

"I won't."

She leans in and kisses my forehead. Like I'm still five.

And I let her.

Because if she knew—

If she ever saw what I really do when the lights are off, when the lies start pouring from my mouth like second language—

She'd break.

And I think some part of me still needs her whole.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," she whispers.

"Night, Mom."

She walks to her room with soft steps and a sleepy smile.

And I sit there, staring at the half-eaten pasta and the empty chair across from me.

The silence buzzes louder than the music.

And I wonder—for just one second—

What it would be like to be the son she thinks I am.