Chapter 13 #2
I glance back at Levi, who’s managed to smear tomato paste on his shirt without noticing. My chest tightens. This weird mortal nonsense? It feels…good. I turn back to Irene. “Lucky number nine, then,” I say, genuinely meaning it.
She huffs like luck has nothing to do with it, already back to stirring with the intensity of someone plotting world domination. Maybe that’s what I’ve missed all these years. The subtle pride mortals take in small victories.
I return to our table to find Levi elbow deep in another pile of assorted herbs, his fingers dusted with something green and fragrant. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth like he’s been waiting for me to come back. “Mingling with the competition, huh?”
“Apparently, Irene leads a double life.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he continues combining ingredients. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I think she’s plotting to murder the competition,” I deadpan, picking up the knife again. “Thought you should know.”
Levi snorts, shaking his head as he moves around the table, brushing a little too close to me as he reaches for a basket of onions. His presence clings to me like a memory I haven’t earned yet. I don’t move. Not right away.
“Focus, Funeral Guy,” he says, nudging me with his hip. “We’ve got soup to make.”
“And what exactly are we making?” I glance at the haphazard collection of ingredients—root vegetables, fresh herbs, a pot simmering with something golden.
“Carrot ginger with coconut milk and hint of lime.” He says it like I should know better. “It’s cozy, comforting, and has a kick at the end. Kinda like me.”
“Ambitious for a root vegetable,” I murmur, arching an eyebrow. “We’re comparing ourselves to soup now?”
“Only the best do.”
I fight a smile. “Alright, Martha Stewart. What’s next?”
Levi stands beside me now, arm touching mine. “Okay, I need you to dice these onions. Small pieces. Uniform. I know you’re good at that part,” he teases.
I nod my head, my knife moving with practiced precision. The motion is oddly calming.
“Okay…that’s perfect,” Levi says, leaning in, watching me work, his chin on my shoulder. “Are you a secret chef?”
“Hardly,” I reply dryly. “I’ve just had a lot of time to perfect basic motor skills.”
His laugh sends a ripple of joy through me. As I slide the onions into a bowl, Levi reaches for it at the same time. We touch, just briefly, but it sends another jolt straight through me. I freeze for half a second, my breath hitching, but Levi smiles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “That’s how people fall in love in rom-coms. Accidental hand touches while cooking.”
I snort, trying to shake off the way my heart just tripped over itself. “Good thing this isn’t a rom-com, then.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” he says, his grin widening.
We move in a rhythm that feels too easy. Levi works with reckless abandon while I handle my own culinary duties with surgeon-like precision. He tosses things into the pot without measuring; I line ingredients up like chess pieces.
And it works.
“Okay, stir this,” Levi instructs, handing me a wooden spoon. Our fingers find each other again, the touch deliberate this time. I take the spoon, stirring the pot as instructed, and pretend my heart isn’t racing.
Levi watches me. “You look very domestic right now.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “I will dump this entire pot over your head.”
He grins, unfazed. “Worth it.”
When the soup is finally done, we both lean over the pot, inhaling the rich, warm aroma. Levi ladles a small spoonful, blowing on it gently before holding it out to me.
“Here. Taste,” he orders, already knowing I’ll obey.
I sip straight from the spoon—apparently that’s who I am now: a man in a high school gym, taste-testing soup.
It’s…good. Decadent, even. Warm, rich, with the faintest zing at the end.
“Well?” Levi leans closer, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“It’s acceptable,” I say, only to watch his face scrunch in offense.
He rolls his eyes, then reaches out to wipe at my lower lip. My breath catches and time stops for something as small as his thumb. Millennia and it’s still the simplest touch that undoes me. His eyes flick down, just briefly, as if he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t say out loud.
“There was a little…” he murmurs, then pops his thumb into his mouth, tasting the soup like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
Not to me.
The space between us feels tighter now. I clear my throat, desperate to summon a single coherent thought, but my brain is short-circuiting. Levi grins, humming like he didn’t just rearrange my entire existence with one careless touch.
· · ·
The crowd buzzes like the fate of the universe hangs on a cooking contest. I stand beside Levi, arms crossed, trying to appear nonchalant even though I’m entirely too invested in soup, of all things.
The school principal, Mr. Alderson, a self-proclaimed soup aficionado with an unfortunate comb-over and a penchant for poorly timed dad jokes, taps the mic, sending a shrill sound through the gym.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he announces with the bravado of a bad awards-show host. “Third place goes to…” He pauses, flipping the card like he’s revealing a plot twist. “Team Lemon Thyme!”
Polite applause sounds through the crowd. I glance at Levi, who gives me an encouraging nudge like we’re in the running for something important.
“Second place,” Mr. Alderson continues, “goes to…” Another unnecessarily long pause. “Team Death Becomes Soup!”
Levi raises both hands in the air, victorious.
I blink. “I see we filed ‘Death Becomes Soup’ without counsel,” I hiss under my breath.
He grins unapologetically. “Surprise.”
Before I can process, Levi grabs my hand…my hand…and drags me forward. I stumble slightly, disoriented by the unexpected attention and the casual way his fingers fit around mine.
Mr. Alderson hands us the tiniest trophy, no taller than an espresso mug, topped with a golden ladle.
It’s almost insulting, but Levi holds it like we’ve won gold at the Olympics.
“I’d like to thank my sous-chef,” he declares dramatically, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
“Couldn’t have done it without his impeccable knife skills and emotional support. ”
I roll my eyes in protest but can’t help but smile.
“And now,” Mr. Alderson says, straightening his tie like he’s preparing to be camera ready. “Our first-place winner, for the ninth year in a row…” He pauses, though no one appears surprised. “Irene Beaumont!”
Applause erupts as Irene steps forward, accepting her oversized trophy with the same expression she uses to hand me death certificates. No fuss. Just pure, quiet professionalism.
I watch her, a wave of pride settling in my chest.
I’ve worked beside Irene for years, yet I’ve never seen her like this.
Cheered for. Celebrated. It’s…instructive.
Not because she doesn’t deserve it, but because I’ve never thought to ask about this part of her life.
Proximity isn’t knowledge, and she’s been here, building a legacy, soup trophy by soup trophy, and I never even knew.
I’ve had all this time existing among these people, and never let myself really see them. Names, yes. Habits, maybe. But all at arm’s length. Neighbors, patrons, even the delicatessen owner who knows my lunch order by heart, familiar faces in a life built on distance and disguised as safety.
Until Levi, who set it all on fire, turned it upside down. I glance at him, his grin easy and bright, his fingers still around mine.
I don’t want to keep myself at a distance anymore.
As Levi and I step down from the makeshift stage, tiny trophy in hand, I catch sight of Dominic and Elijah off to the side. They’re in the middle of what can only be described as a domestic squabble, though it’s more theatrical than tense.
“I told you we needed more cumin,” Dominic huffs, arms crossed like he’s presenting evidence in court.
Elijah scoffs, offended. “No, what we needed was to not turn it into a cumin soup. There’s a difference, my love.”
“They don’t appreciate bold flavors here,” Dominic fires back, glaring at the judges like they betrayed him, too.
Elijah waves a dismissive hand. “Sure. Blame the town’s palate. Not the fact that you think ‘just a dash’ means half the jar.”
Levi snickers beside me, leaning in to whisper, “They never place. Obviously.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Shocking.”
Dominic catches us watching and points emphatically. “Oh, look, it’s Team Death. Congrats on your little trophy.”
Levi beams, ignoring his swipe. “Thanks! We’re thinking of starting a soup empire. You’ll get a discount.”
Elijah rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin brewing on his face as he watches his husband muttering something about culinary injustice before wrapping him in a loving embrace.
It’s…nice. The kind of bickering built over years of choosing each other. The kind that keeps a life warm, and it makes me wonder what it would be like to have that kind of history with someone.
And then Levi’s hand finds mine again.
Maybe I don’t have to wonder that much longer.
After we clean up, we head back across the square to the market.
The crowd’s thinner now, the air cooling as the last few shoppers linger over bundles of herbs and the smell of fresh bread.
Naomi’s already halfway through packing up the stand, clipboard tucked under her arm and a wide grin of a job well done plastered on her face.
“Told you I’ve got this,” she says, gesturing to the neatly boxed leftover stems and full cash tin.
Levi laughs, helping her collapse the tent poles while I stack the last of the crates in the van in an attempt to be helpful.
“Remind me again why you’re not running things yet?” Levi asks.
“Still figuring that out,” she says, grinning.
Once everything’s loaded, Levi locks up the van, brushing dirt from his hands. I assume now’s when we’ll part ways, but as I reach for my coat, he stops me.
“Where do you think you’re going, mister?” he asks.
“Home?” I reply, as if it’s obvious.
He snorts. “Absolutely not. We got second place, Hayden. That calls for celebration.”
I raise an eyebrow. “For soup?”
“For victory,” he corrects, tugging me toward the door. “And for not burning the gym down.”
“That was a real risk with your technique,” I mutter, but I follow him into the cool night, his hand like fire around mine.
This is how it starts. Not with shadows or prophecy.
But with laughter, ridiculous soup, and Levi Wilder tugging me gently toward the kind of life I never dared let myself want.
“Franny’s. Drinks are on me.”
Without another thought, I’m smiling again.