Chapter 7
Hayden
My apartment is silent except for the gentle scrape of cleaning Seby’s litter box, a task suited to a man built on quiet rituals no one notices. Even Seby only flicks his tail from the doorway. Supervising, not keeping me company.
“Don’t look so smug,” I mutter. “It’s unbecoming.”
He blinks, entirely unbothered.
I sigh, set the scoop aside, lean back against the wall, and replay my exchange with Levi after trivia…again. The way his expression had shifted after I’d snapped at him.
Am I a joke for you and your friends?
I close my eyes, cringing internally at the memory.
I’d spent centuries maintaining careful distance, fully aware of my reputation.
But hearing it echoed back, even as playful teasing, stung more than I’d expected.
From Dominic, his husband, the rest of Stonevale…
I understood the jokes, their curiosity.
From Levi? It felt like being seen wrong.
Like I’d risked showing a little of myself and was mistaken for a caricature.
Seby pads softly across the floor, brushing against my leg with a quiet purr of reassurance. I reach down absently, gently stroking behind his ears. “Maybe I’m overreacting,” I murmur. He tilts his head up, blinking at me with solemn eyes, as if to confirm the sentiment.
Or maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like to let someone get this close. To risk being known is to risk being misunderstood.
Seby wanders off, apparently satisfied that I’ve reached some internal conclusion.
I stand slowly and make my way to the couch, shaking off any lingering self-doubt.
Levi is the sort of man who deserves a concrete version of me.
Someone willing to meet him halfway and not retreat at the first hint of misunderstanding.
But there’s more than one thing I’m craving from him.
Connection, yes. Understanding, certainly.
But not to bury the lede…I think I want to sleep with him.
Uncomplicated, sweaty, possibly ill-advised sex.
I’m painfully attracted to Levi, who is a walking temptation in denim and sunshine, and I’m only a man. A complicated former god, sure. But a man nonetheless.
If he wanted this…me…I wouldn’t say no. Not even close.
Something raw and immediate: a reminder that despite centuries of restraint and more lonely nights alphabetizing death certificates than I care to admit, I’m still capable of wanting something primal.
So, with all the dignity of a man cleaning cat litter on a Monday night, I open the App Store, type Grindr, and press “re-download” like I’m summoning an ancient demon I swore I’d banish.
The app is exactly as I remember. An endless blur of mirror selfies, clenched jaws, and profiles that swing between transactional and outright dismissive. Desire reduced to thumbnails and half sentences. No coins for the ferryman, just taps.
I sigh, sinking farther into my worn leather couch.
The lamp beside me casts a warm glow, illuminating a room filled with jazz records and shelves lined meticulously with books.
Quiet companions for endless evenings. But tonight, the books remain untouched, and jazz feels inadequate for my current reality: scrolling headless torsos, which means… I am undeniably horny.
There was a time when desire was effortless, uncomplicated.
In the underworld, if I wanted company, for one night or one century, I barely had to lift a finger.
Even here on earth, my relationships had stretched across centuries, each one a reflection of the time.
The decadence of Rome; the passion of the Renaissance; the reckless, booze-fueled haze of the 1920s.
Polyamory was common. Threesomes? Expected.
If you weren’t at least dabbling in BDSM in the eighteenth century, were you even doing it right?
But these days, aimless scrolling appears to be the norm.
My options are limited to an app where people can, and will, ignore you if your ab-to-face ratio is unbalanced or there isn’t an immediate social exchange ready for the taking.
It’s fascinating, really. The way mortals have managed to take something as innate as desire and whittle it down to a series of cropped, blurry photos and “you up?” messages.
A soft thump interrupts my contemplation as Seby gracefully leaps onto the couch. He studies my phone with a look bordering on judgmental.
“Not a word,” I mutter, gently scratching behind his ears. He purrs dismissively.
I’m seconds from deleting the app altogether when my thumb pauses, caught on a profile.
Levi.
His photo is refreshingly honest: freckles, casual smile, red hair disheveled. Levi doesn’t hide behind angles or filters. I hover uncertainly, because the jury is out on if I’m a masochist or just unbearably horny, before finally clicking his profile.
Plant daddy and professional yapper. Ask away.
A laugh escapes me. Levi is everything I’ve avoided. Bright, openhearted, impossibly genuine. He’s also managed, in just a few days, to make himself too present in my life. In a sea of anonymity, Levi has put his best foot forward with full transparency. Dimples and all.
Unexpectedly, I find myself typing.
Me: Is my trivia invitation still intact?
The reply comes swiftly, almost as if he’s been waiting.
Levi: There’s NO WAY I’m talking to THE Hayden Harlow right now.
I fight a smile, sip my wine, and reply.
Me: And by THE Hayden you mean…
There’s a brief pause. I can almost picture his grin widening.
Levi: Oh, you know exactly what I mean. If I promise to be nice, can I please still call you Funeral Guy?
The nickname, irritatingly endearing, is quickly becoming familiar. Normally, I’d protest something so overtly playful. But with Levi, it feels different. Warm, teasing, inviting…it does something to me.
Seby stretches, then curls up against my thigh.
Me: I wasn’t aware I had a title.
Levi: One of many, actually. Mysterious, broody funeral director. City hall’s number one fan. Freakishly good at trivia. Wears more layers than Stonevale weather requires. Shall I proceed??
This time the laughter comes easily, echoing through my apartment. Levi’s effortless humor feels like forgiveness, reassurance that the small missteps between us don’t have to be permanent barriers.
Me: You’re oddly fixated on my wardrobe.
Levi: You’re oddly fixated on wearing only black.
He’s quick. Faster and more perceptive than I’d anticipated. My pulse races slightly, curiosity deepening into something riskier.
Me: It’s called consistency. It adds to my carefully cultivated “town mystery”…or so I’m told.
Levi: Lol or…and hear me out…it’s called “I have something to hide.”
My fingers hesitate. He has no idea how right he is. A shiver crawls down my spine. The truth skims close enough to raise my shadows. I nearly withdraw, silence this conversation, when another message appears.
Levi: You overanalyze.
I exhale softly, a reluctant smile forming. It feels strangely important that Levi sees beyond the image I’ve spent lifetimes constructing.
Me: It’s part of the elusive funeral director persona. I have a reputation to uphold. Besides, you analyze incorrectly.
Levi: Do not.
I’m annoyed at how much I’m enjoying this. This easy, flirtatious exchange that feels dangerously natural. A log shifts in the fireplace, shadows flickering through my empty apartment.
Me: So, are you here just to critique my fashion, or is this app actually working for you?
There’s a beat of silence, a torturous moment of digital limbo where I’ve gone from casually curious about Levi to…entirely invested.
Levi: Oh, it’s definitely working. I’ve already secured a date with the hottest guy in town.
My heartbeat quickens, betraying any remaining composure.
Me: Is that so?
Levi: Mm-hm. Pale, buttoned-up, devastating at trivia…and handsome. You’d hate him.
A sharp inhale, anticipation coiling in my chest.
Me: Sounds like a nightmare.
Levi: Total nightmare. Can’t wait to see him again.
It’s unmistakable now. Flirting. Intentional, electric flirting.
I lean back into the couch, rubbing a hand over my jaw, heart pounding unevenly.
The scent of burnt amber and cedar fills the room and, for the first time in far too long, I feel want.
It churns low in my stomach, sharp and startling, the ache so foreign that I legitimately have to stop and think about when I last allowed myself to act on it.
It should be unsettling, a step too far. Yet I find myself craving more.
Me: You’re persistent.
Levi: And you’re resistant.
Instantaneous reply. My thumb pauses, hovering over the screen, tension tightening my chest.
Me: I have my reasons. Turns out small towns just love their narratives.
Levi: Do they involve being deeply emotionally unavailable?
I stare at his words. He’s not entirely wrong. And his honestly feels unexpectedly gentle. Maybe that’s why it hits so differently coming from him.
Me: Careful now. According to recent opinion, that’s exactly my brand.
The pulse at my throat jumps. I shift on the couch, aware of every inch of fabric against my skin, of how much space my body is taking up, how warm the room has gotten.
I’m not used to taking risks like this. Or this want.
But Levi makes me want to. And that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
Me: How about this: Drinks this week. No trivia. Just drinks. I’ll even limit myself to a single layer of black.
Another pause. Heartbeats stretch painfully until—
Levi: I’d love nothing more, Funeral Guy.
I set my phone down, the ache still low in my stomach as I breathe out slowly. The wanting stays. The loneliness loosens. Not at all the same thing, but close enough to feel like weather changing.
My shadows stir at the edges of the room, restless with my growing vulnerability. Normally, they’re my shield against mortal life, the one constant left from the underworld. Proof I haven’t been erased completely. But as Levi’s words linger, they feel uncertain, almost curious.