Chapter 12 #2
Hayden shifts his grip on the steering wheel, and fuck me, his hands are ridiculous. Long fingers and tendons flexing beneath warm skin. Yup. He could snap me like a twig and I’d say thank you. How is it possible for someone’s hands to be this distracting?
Fifteen minutes later, he turns down a narrow, tree-lined lane I swear I’ve never seen. The car slows, crunching over gravel, until we come to a stop in front of what can only be described as a hidden gem.
A stunning old stone building, ivy crawling up its sides, windows tall and arched like something out of a fairy tale.
I blink, genuinely stunned. “What…is this? I’ve lived here forever and never knew this existed.”
“A library,” he says, killing the engine. He slips off his sunglasses, that disarming smirk in place. “The town tucked it away decades ago when they built the new one. Not exactly advertised.”
“Hidden Stonevale history? Guess even lifelong locals still miss a few things.”
“Come on. You’ll love it.”
We step out, and the cold bites my skin. The building looms in front of us, elegant and timeless.
Inside, the air is warm, filled with that charming blend of old paper, polished wood, and history.
The floors creak slightly under my feet, the sound swallowed by the towering shelves that stretch toward the vaulted ceilings.
Sunlight spills through stained glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the worn rugs and reading tables scattered throughout.
“It’s…incredible,” I breathe, my eyes darting around, trying to take it all in. “A secret library. That’s aggressively on-brand, Harlow.”
Hayden’s hands slide into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. “I hoped you’d like it.”
We start walking the aisles, the hush of the space settling around us like a soft blanket. I trail my fingers across all the shelves as we pass, row after row of books from every era in time.
“So…” I nudge him with my shoulder. “What’s it like being ancient? Wake up sore? Need a walker? Fiber supplements?”
He huffs a laugh. “Charming.”
“No, seriously. Do you ever wake up and think, ‘Ah, yes, another millennium’?”
Hayden shakes his head, but there’s a softness to his smile that makes my heart do that annoying flip thing.
“Not exactly,” he says. “Mostly, I think about coffee.”
We wander deeper into the maze of shelves, our footsteps soft and our shoulders brushing just often enough to make me wonder if it’s intentional as the conversation flows easily.
Questions about his past, stories from centuries I can’t imagine, peppered with my dumb commentary that makes him roll his eyes fondly.
We stumble upon a dusty old book in a display case, its pages yellowed with age. It’s an illustrated manuscript, and there, in faded ink, is a depiction of the Greek gods. Dramatic poses, flowing robes, all muscle and intensity.
I lean in, studying the drawing, aware of Hayden stepping close enough that I can feel his breath warm the side of my neck.
The artist clearly had a flair for the theatric.
Sharp cheekbones, an imposing stance, obedient shadows curling around his feet.
Compared to the broad, striking figures of his family, Hades is drawn slightly leaner, his posture more withdrawn, like he’s already bored of the scene unfolding around him.
They got that part right. The air of disinterest, the subtle tilt of his head as if none of it really mattered.
But they missed the truth of him. The loneliness that never really left.
The grief carved into the quiet spaces of his expression.
The softness no one was ever meant to notice.
It doesn’t compare.
Not to the real thing.
The drawing is dramatic for drama’s sake, but Hayden…
Hayden carries it without trying. Effortless.
Understated. Gravity just bends toward him out of habit.
Standing beside him now, I’m beginning to glean it’s not arrogance.
It’s defense. When you’ve lived lifetimes apart from everyone you’ve ever loved, maybe it’s the only way to survive.
I tilt my head. “Wow. They really didn’t do you justice.”
Hayden snorts, shaking his head. “I was never that into the theatrics of it all.”
“Oh, please,” I tease. “Says the guy who wears all black and broods competitively.”
His mouth quirks and my gaze drags there helplessly.
His lips part like he’s caught between wanting and waiting.
For me. For something he’s not ready to ask for.
I see the ache of someone who’s always been standing just outside the frame of his own life.
Watching everyone else belong, and suddenly, the room feels too small.
We drift deeper into the labyrinth of shelves, the quiet hum of the library settling around us. Hayden’s steps are measured and unhurried, his fingers brushing the spines of books like he’s greeting old friends.
For once, I’m not the one talking. Which…is a rarity.
“So,” Hayden says suddenly, his voice low and smooth. “We’ve covered my extensive résumé. God of the underworld, funeral director, occasional brooder…your words,” he adds. “I’d say it’s your turn.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “Oh? You want my origin story?”
He smirks. “Well, considering I’ve bared my immortal soul, fair’s fair.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Prepare to be wildly underwhelmed.”
He rests a deliberate hand on my arm. “Nothing about you is underwhelming,” he says, staring right into my soul, and I could just about combust on the spot.
We pause near a tall window, the light dancing across Hayden’s face. He leans casually against a shelf, crossing his arms, like he’s posing for some Renaissance painting without even trying.
“Shoot,” I say with a flourish. He’s close enough now that I can’t stop thinking about what he’d taste like. Something dark, slow, and impossible to forget. “What do you want to know, oh mighty immortal one?”
He suppresses a grin, and I swear there’s actual amusement dancing behind those gray eyes of his. “What makes you happy?” he asks, voice low, too low, and I swear the question lands like a hand on the small of my back.
The question is too simple.
“Um…sunshine, mostly. Fresh flowers, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
“The smell of rain before it starts. Watching people fall in love from a distance…nosey, I know.”
He chuckles softly, nodding for me to carry on.
“Sunday mornings when it’s quiet. A dirty martini. The first sip of coffee. Laughing until my face hurts. And”—I chance a look at him—“conversations like this.”
Something unreadable emerges behind Hayden’s eyes. “Conversations like this?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool despite the fact that my heart is rattling around my rib cage. “You know…where it’s more than small talk. When you’re learning someone, layer by layer.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression softening. “I like that.”
“Well, you’re welcome. That’s premium insight, by the way. I usually charge for this level of depth.”
“Noted. Put it on my tab,” he says. He lingers on my mouth and stays there, long enough that my pulse stumbles over itself and I feel the air shift again. My skin prickles with awareness, like my body’s already moving toward him even though I haven’t taken a single step. “Alright, your turn.”
He grins. “Ah, so we’re playing question roulette?”
“You did say fair’s fair.” I pretend to think, tapping my chin dramatically. “Okay…what’s the most human thing you’ve ever done?”
He raises a brow. “Define ‘human.’ ”
“Something trivial. Like…have you ever gotten a parking ticket? Cried at a movie? Tripped in public and pretended it was intentional?”
His mouth curves into a reluctant grin. “I once fought a pigeon.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“It stole my sandwich.”
I laugh, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. “Hades, god of the underworld…lost a sandwich to a pigeon?”
“It was an excellent sandwich,” he says, tragically sincere.
I double over, clutching my stomach. “At least tell me you won.”
He tilts his head, feigning contemplation. “And when you say ‘won,’ you mean…”
I’m still laughing when he nudges my arm, soft and intentional, a spark disguised as casual contact that sends a ripple down my spine.
His smile fades, settling into something that feels too gentle to be an accident. “What’s your biggest fear?”
The question lands differently. Less playful, more…sincere.
I swallow, my laughter fading into something quieter. My first instinct is to deflect, toss back some witty retort about clowns or public speaking. But his gaze holds me in a way that makes lying impossible.
“Losing people.” The words come out too quickly, like I’ve been holding them back without realizing. I shrug, trying to coat them in nonchalance. “Not in a tragic way. Just…quiet. The kind that creeps in until you realize they’re already gone.” But that’s not the whole truth.
It’s not about people drifting away. It’s about how they can vanish, suddenly and without warning. Without a chance to say the things you thought you had forever to say. It’s about absence that’s instant.
The unsaid words sit heavy in my chest, pressing down like a weight I’ve grown used to carrying.
Hayden doesn’t say anything right away. But his expression shifts. To recognition, maybe. Or empathy.
“I get that,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges, and I believe him.
The air thickens, heavy with a tension we haven’t named but can’t ignore. As if we’ve been circling this moment for days, maybe weeks, and finally stumbled into the space where everything might combust.
We keep walking, our hands brushing occasionally, each spark more electric than the last. And then we turn a corner and stumble into a small alcove tucked away from the main hall.
A pocket of quiet washed in amber light.
The scent of old paper wraps around us. Dust dances in the window light, and time itself seems to pause.