15. Levi
CHAPTER 15
Levi
P orto Cervo, Friday, August 29th
‘He doesn’t love me like that.’
The words rattled around my head like pebbles in a tin can. It had been a fun little thing I’d done with Emily—she’d been four, going on five, just before Jessica’s cancer diagnosis flipped our worlds upside down. No responsibility, just an afternoon with my adorable niece because my sister had a headache and I had no plans other than figuring out the rest of my life. So Emily and I had built instruments out of pebbles and tin cans and sticks, got a rhythm going, and pretended we were on stage, playing to thousands.
‘He doesn’t love me like that.’
Something about Cass’s tone when he’d said it stayed with me—not matter-of-fact but sure and a little resigned, like it was something he knew to be true at least for now.
Was it?
The question had niggled at me all throughout dinner last night—pizza served fresh from the outdoor oven where I’d grabbed Cass just days ago, desperate to get my hands on him. It wasn’t just physical; I knew that. It was our past blurred with this new kind of friendship we’d built, melting in with a blinding attraction and dusted with appreciation for the man he’d become. But love? No. I couldn’t do this again.
I woke up to find him already gone, a dent in the pillow where he’d slept. Morning warmth drifted through the open window, along with the faint strumming of a guitar. Single chords followed by a slow progression of notes, like he was still testing the outline of an idea.
Coffee first. I brushed my teeth, slipped on a T-shirt, and wandered through the kitchen for an espresso and a fresh pastry. My dad must have dropped by the bakery already.
I found Cass in a snug sitting area formed by slabs of granite, their weathered look softened by cream-coloured cushions. Sunlight filtered through branches that wove a loose canopy overhead. In a tank top and faded shorts, hair a messy tumble, he seemed miles removed from the boy who’d longed for bright lights and city thrills.
‘He doesn’t love me like that.’
I hovered at the edge of the stone path, listening to a warm, relaxed progression of chords, Cass humming along under his breath. Not a big showstopper, nothing loaded with recognisable hooks—just sweet, maybe even a bit raw.
He glanced up and caught me looking. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Hey. You just gonna stand there?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re not.” His voice had dipped low on the statement, as if it meant to encompass much more than just this moment—like he would welcome me anytime, anywhere.
I sat down on the stone wall beside him, shy for no real reason. “New song?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He looked down at the fretboard, pressed his fingertips against it, and released another gentle chord. “Not sure it’s album material. Maybe a bonus track or something.”
“Show me what you’ve got so far?”
He nodded. His body curved over the guitar, head bent as he picked out a delicate melody. His lips formed silent words, testing lyrics against the music. I’d always loved watching him like this, focused and unguarded.
He didn’t have Mason’s skill with a guitar—none of us did because Mason had played well before the band. The rest of us had learned it mostly for something to do on the bus, for messing around backstage before a show, because it was a useful tool once we’d started working on our own music. The label hadn’t been too enthusiastic about that at first. So, no, Cass didn’t have Mason’s skill, but the way his slender fingers moved over the strings made me swallow hard.
“It’s nice,” I said quietly. “Really lovely. But something about the chorus—can you…?”
He complied without question, moving through the same sequence. Around us, the garden seemed to have fallen into a hush, nothing but the faint rustle of leaves and the steady, quiet hum of insects.
When the notes faded, I leaned back against the stone and pulled one knee up to my chest. “I think I keep waiting for a drop, and it never quite hits. Your third chord—you keep hitting a major when I think a minor would…”
He shot me a quiet look that made it suddenly difficult to breathe. “You think so?”
“Just try it.”
He did, shifting his grip. The chord change darkened the progression and gave it a bit more depth. Better . His brows drew together as he repeated the sequence, finishing with a half-formed smile.
“I like it.”
“Yeah.” Stupidly, my cheeks warmed. “Got lyrics yet?”
“Just snippets. Images, mostly.” He pushed his notebook towards me, open on the oddly shaped stone table that served as the centrepiece of the seating group. That tied it together —he’d always mocked me when I used language like that, gently so, laughter woven into a playful challenge to ‘be more gay, I dare you.’ Somehow, I knew he’d outgrown that kind of talk.
I scanned his lopsided scrawl, no clear order yet to his disjointed thoughts. An old knot comes undone. In places we have yet to find. A rose-hued, patient sky. Certain steps, no rush.
It fit his melody—warm and a little understated, hopeful. Personal, because writing music always was, but I couldn’t quite tell if it was about his own path, finally coming out, or whether this thing between us had bled into the edges of his words. Would it make a difference?
Once he was out, he’d have guys queuing around the block—models, porn stars, fans; they’d all try to get a piece of him. Meanwhile, I was a recovering alcoholic wrapped in faint echoes of my former fame, with a day job, a kid, and a cat. I couldn’t follow him around the world even if I wanted to.
Nothing heavy.
“Pretty.” I nudged the notebook back towards him and glanced at the garden’s edge, the sliver of blue sea just visible beyond. “Hey, any updates from your PR team on how it’s going? With the rumours and all.”
The other lads were sending us bits and pieces, but I wasn’t sure how much of that had been dredged up from the more obscure parts of the internet.
“They say it’s spreading. Slowly picking up.” Something about the subtle clench of Cass’s jaw seemed off. “Social media, obviously—there was a ‘then and now’ edit of us that went kinda viral. Mason liked it, and then a couple of gossip sites used that as a hook to run with the story.”
“That’s good, right?” I asked, studying him closely. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.”
“No.” It came out quick and precise, and I relaxed just a little.
“Then what’s with the…?” I waved a hand to indicate his tight expression. A tiny grin twitched around his lips.
“That’s just my face—sorry.”
“It’s a nice face.” Truth, nothing more to it. Casual. “No, I just meant you look a bit tense.”
I could tell he considered turning it into a joke, patterned sunlight dancing over his forehead. Then he shrugged gently and looked away. “It’s… I don’t know. I guess part of me wants to just enjoy this, you know? Being here. Not thinking about the world out there. But also, it’s like… My team keeps saying I shouldn’t push it, slow and steady does the trick, whatever, but it feels like we’re moving at glacial speed here.”
Oh. No second thoughts—quite the opposite. I extended my foot and let the toes curl against his thigh. “You want to speed things up?”
He raised his gaze to meet mine, a sudden spark in his eyes, tone cautiously mischievous. “Well. It would go against the advice of my team.”
“Now that would be rude. Far be it from me to suggest such a thing.” I smiled like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “But since it’s your last night here… I mean, nothing wrong with a laddy lads’ night out, is there? Nice restaurant with a terrace, view of the sea, maybe a candle on the table… Nothing to it, is there? It’s hardly our fault if people mistake it for a romantic holiday dinner.”
Bonus: this wasn’t LA. This was an island at the tail end of Europe’s summer holiday season, with school having restarted in a good many places already—precisely why I’d picked this week. There’d be no paps swarming us within twenty minutes, no sudden crush of fans crowded outside the restaurant.
Cass smiled back, so bright it seemed to flood his entire body with sunshine. “I’m paying.”
“We can fight over the cheque,” I told him, and maybe this was a risk, venturing out in public with only Frank as our backup, and against the advice of Cass’s team.
But—screw it. Back then, we’d done things by the book, and it had ended us and then the band. Wasn’t it time we stopped following someone else’s script?
* * *
Cass’s assistant had pulled some strings to secure us a last-minute table at a popular Porto Cervo restaurant.
We arrived just before the sky leaned into dusk, the kind of pastel wash that never showed well in photos, and parked in a reserved spot. Frank met us there. I recognised the near-imperceptible tension in the set of Cass’s shoulders—years later, my stomach no longer twisted each time I stepped into a public space, no disguise to hide behind, but I remembered those days when chaos was never far.
A host greeted us. Her smile was nervous but unsurprised, so she must have been instructed to play it cool, act like we were just another pair of diners. She guided us to a terrace table near the edge that overlooked the marina. Couples and small groups filled the space, snatches of Italian, English, and German drifting across white linen tablecloths. Some heads turned as soon as we entered.
Well. Job done, then.
Cass settled into his chair, back straight, and I took the seat opposite him. “Nice place,” I said, nodding at the view. Stubborn daylight clung to the horizon, painting the yachts below in gentle gold.
“Yeah.” He tugged at his collar—a blue shirt, half-buttoned, no hat or sunglasses. “Not too fancy, though. There was a Michelin-star restaurant too, but I thought you’d prefer this.”
“This is great.” Small talk about the restaurant, really ? We were far beyond that, but then, most people didn’t date under a spotlight. Yet that was exactly why we were here.
Couldn’t complain, then, about how several people kept glancing over until a trio of young women approached, phones in hand, an older guy just behind. Showtime. I let Cass do most of the talking, just leaned into him and his arm around my waist as I draped mine across his shoulders. Sure, loves—not a problem. You wanna be in the picture with us? Get in, then! Thanks, you too! Oh, it’s for your daughter? Sweet, what’s her name? Tell her hi!
Three picture requests later, Frank stationed himself to discourage further approaches. We sat back down, attention still hot on us, and picked up the menus.
“Think we’ll make it to dessert this time?” I asked as hushed giggles drifted over from a neighbouring table.
“Dubious,” he said.
“Remember how last time, you promised Emmy some dessert and didn’t deliver?”
“She mentioned it, yeah. Once or twice.”
Or a half-dozen times. I grinned and reached across the table to squeeze his hand as though he’d just paid me the most delightful compliment. “Good. Because she may not forgive you a second time.”
“Better ask them to box it up now,” he said, like he genuinely cared what she thought of him.
“Bribery?” I raised an eyebrow, and he smiled.
“Whatever it takes.”
A waiter floated over to offer wine suggestions in lightly accented English. We opted for their non-alcoholic house aperitif and a bottle of sparkling water, then turned to quickly choose our food in case we had to leave early.
“Catch of the day for you?” I asked him. He loved fresh fish—always used to rave about it when we toured coastal cities, how he’d grown up with excellent seafood options in Virginia Beach and how what they served in landlocked places was a travesty.
“Naturally.” His brow smoothed out as he watched me from across the table, something soft and relaxed about him. “Let me guess—the homemade ravioli?”
Truffle—delicious. I scanned the other mains before I nodded. “Good guess.”
“I know you too, Lee.” It was said without reproach, just a statement of fact, and I refused to read anything into it. “Do we share the tacos with shrimp as a starter?”
“Sold,” I said. “And the chocolate mousse for dessert?”
“Done. That, and the chocolate explosion for Emmy.” He closed his menu with a snap, and I did the same, thought, Emmy . Only a handful of people called her that, and now Cass was one of them.
Our waiter dropped by with our aperitifs and took our orders, clearly trying to treat us like we were just everyday guests, nothing to be gawked at. I appreciated the effort. Once we were alone again, we let silence settle for a minute as I focused on the gleaming boats bobbing in the bay, a quiet warmth behind my ribs. This felt like a half-forgotten daydream, like a future I’d once wanted with Cass.
Nothing heavy.
“Thank you,” he said suddenly, and I turned my head to meet his eyes.
“For helping you?” I asked, and yes, right—that’s why we were here. “You’re welcome. Now please stop thanking me.”
His lips twitched. “Actually, I meant for inviting me here. It’s been… I really needed to slow down, I think. And being able to be here with you, to get to know Emmy, and maybe your parents have forgiven me at least a little… It’s been amazing, Lee. So, thank you.”
‘It’s been amazing.’ Like it was already over because, yeah, he’d leave tomorrow, one day earlier than the rest of us—places to be. No matter what illusions I entertained, he was still Cassian Monroe.
“Pretty sure you already thanked me for that, too,” I said, trying for light and teasing. “No starters yet, and I’m already bored. Terrible date.”
“Is it?” He leaned back with the tiniest of smiles, watching me from underneath slightly lowered lashes. Challenge accepted. His voice went dark and just a hint sweet, like quality chocolate. “What if I told you that I prepped myself earlier so I’m all nice and loose for you? And that as soon as we get out of here and into the car—maybe we’ll find a dark place to pull over and I can ride you in the back seat.”
Holy shit, images. How his eyes went heavy when I pushed into him, the way his spine arched to take more of me. His choked groans, trying to be quiet even when I could tell he was tumbling towards the edge. How he pushed into my kisses, always, opened for me like it was instinct.
I shifted in my chair, crossed my legs. Cleared my throat. “Uh. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His smile widened. “Still bored?”
“If I said yes, would you keep going?”
Frustratingly, the waiter reappeared right then with focaccia bread and olive oil. We thanked the guy, Cass seeming to bite his cheek against a laugh, and when we were alone again, the heavy pull of tension had cracked. A flicker of movement caught my eye—someone trying to sneak a photo of us. Cass glanced that way too, then returned his attention to me with a half-formed shrug. Yeah. This was why we were here, wasn’t it?
I broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil, and savoured the crisp, fresh taste as our conversation moved from Cass’s hectic schedule for the next two weeks to my role as a mentor to young artists.
“People like Cosma—we both know the industry’s ready to chew them up and spit them out,” I said. “I try to give them a fighting chance, help them set boundaries.”
“Something no one did for us.” Cass’s voice blended in with the darkening sky, a waitress going around to light candles.
“Yeah.” I ran a finger along the edge of my glass, then picked it up for a sip of water. “We survived. But we deserved better—and my acts do too.”
“Can’t be easy,” he said. “The label must have their own ideas about what these kids should be doing.”
“Yeah, well.” I paused as our starter arrived, both of us thanking the waiter in a murmur before I picked the thread back up. “They do, yeah, but they respect my input. Helped them sign some really good talent—artists I spotted, including two that had offers from other, bigger labels, but they went with me. So I’m not just a washed-up boybander with opinions anymore.”
“‘Washed-up boybander’?” He grimaced. “Harsh, Lee.”
“Not you, Cass. Obviously.” I flicked a crumb from the tablecloth. “Me, though? Yeah—I’ve got no illusions.”
He exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on the table. Reflected candlelight danced along the bridge of his nose. “Could be me. If this doesn’t go well, if it turns out being a sex symbol was my biggest selling point and it doesn’t combine with being gay…”
“Cass. Babe .” I pressed our knees together under the table and grabbed his hand on top of it, not meant as a performance. “You’re more than that. If that’s the kind of rubbish your team feeds you, fire them.” Something occurred to me, anger like lightning flashing in my gut. “Or is that your parents talking?”
One side of his mouth hitched up, no humour in his eyes. “Not exactly. They don’t know I’m gonna do this.”
Jesus. I’d always felt like I needed to hold back around them, could sense their undercurrent of disapproval, their hope that I was just a passing phase. But, fuck—I’d really like a word right now.
“You’re more,” I repeated, firm. “You’re a brilliant musician, Cass. Trust me—I sign them for a living.”
“You’re biased, though.” His small huff of laughter didn’t quite mask his uncertainty, the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I kept his hand clasped in mine, briefly listening to the pleasant murmur of tinkling glasses and low conversation around us.
“I am,” I said then. “But so are your parents because they really like the money. Me? I just like you. So—who do you trust?”
Finally, his eyes found mine. “You,” he said, low like a confession. “I trust you.”
“Good.” I exhaled around the ache and held on for just a moment longer. Then I let go of his hand.
* * *
We drove back along dark, winding roads, the silent villa waiting for us under a star-painted sky.
I kissed him against the car, hand fumbling at his belt, the garage our hiding place. Bent him over the hood and fucked him—pretended that I was fine, this was fine, that I wouldn’t miss the taste of his smile or the rasp of his voice first thing in the morning.
We weren’t meant to last. Not then, not now.