Chapter 23
Levi
The thing about falling for someone, really and truly falling, is you rarely notice it in real time. It’s not fireworks or orchestral swells or some grand revelation.
It’s quieter. Walls you didn’t know you built crumbling. A person weaving into your life so seamlessly you can’t remember any of it before them.
It’s in the way I keep showing up at Hayden’s place, teasing past his hesitation, pretending I don’t notice how he softens whenever I walk in.
It’s in the way we’ve started dating.
Wild, considering he doesn’t “do” that, invite people in or let someone wander through the spaces he’s curated, but he lets me.
And it does something to me.
Because the more time we spend together, the more I notice the subtle ways he’s changing.
How he lingers at my shop longer, how he makes excuses to stay rather than leave.
How his pantry is suddenly stocked with my favorite snacks.
How there’s a new throw blanket on his couch, the exact green I once said I liked.
At the same time, I feel it. The heaviness edging in, the familiar darkness that always seems to find me this time of year. The calendar knows before I do. It always does. The reminder of what’s coming, pressing down, clawing at the edges of my happiness.
So, I bury it in this. In him. In us.
It starts with a challenge.
“I don’t do games,” Hayden says flatly, arms crossed, as he surveys the flashing neon signs and chaos of Stonevale’s arcade.
If you can even call it that. There’s essentially a handful of vintage and bordering run-down games hidden in the tavern’s basement that always eat your tokens and are rarely ever worth the fuss.
All week I’ve been buried under permits and flower orders, my desk a literal graveyard of reminders about seedling amendments.
So tonight, dragging Hayden out like this feels like pressing pause on the real world.
“Ah, so you admit defeat already,” I counter, shoving a crumpled twenty into the token machine.
His jaw tics. “I fear nothing.”
“Sure, sure,” I hum, jingling the cup of tokens in front of him. “Then prove it. I dare you to beat me at any game of your choosing.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek. Bingo. Hayden Harlow can’t resist a challenge, especially one wrapped in smugness and arcade tokens.
Thirty minutes later, he’s an entirely different person.
Gone is the reluctant, broody funeral director.
And in his place, a man with laser focus, lips pressed in concentration as he annihilates me at air hockey.
Hayden plays ruthlessly, sending the puck flying across the table at speeds that should absolutely require protective eyewear.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I laugh as he scores again, the puck nearly clipping my arm.
He smirks. “I thought you liked a challenge.”
“Not when theatrics and potentially bodily harm are involved, Mr. Harlow.”
He shrugs, the picture of arrogance. But when I beat him at Dance Dance Revolution, an event that involves many unexpected hip movements and one very memorable eye roll, he surprises me.
By laughing. A real, unrestrained laugh, rare enough that I nearly miss a step. Worth it. And just like that, it becomes one of my favorite nights. We walk home afterward, hands held, the air crisp with winter. Hayden hesitates at my door, fingers lingering on the sleeve of my coat.
“I had fun,” he says, maybe the first time he’s ever admitted it out loud.
I grin. “You better get used to it.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.
· · ·
Saturday mornings in Stonevale belong to Main Street.
The smell of fresh pastries, the clink of coffee cups, and the slow shuffle of locals who treat every errand like a social event. You can pick up fresh honey, restock your pantry, and drop off your dry cleaning, all while learning this week’s gossip on every corner.
For me, it’s ritual. My Saturday reprieve before diving back into garden logistics. Another call, another bout of supplier drama, another volunteer schedule to amend. But right now? I get to be just Levi, tugging a reluctant former god through the heart of Stonevale.
For Hayden, it’s a test of patience.
“Explain again why we’re buying produce outdoors as if modern civilization doesn’t exist?” he mutters as we step onto the cobblestone sidewalk. He’s dressed in his usual all-black ensemble, which makes him stand out dramatically against the sea of colorful storefronts and sun-drenched awnings.
“Because it’s fun,” I say, dragging him toward antique teacups. “Fresher produce. Free samples. Local business…”
He groans like I’ve just told him we’re attending a three-hour seminar on the powers of manifestation. “We’re here for a reason,” he reminds me. “A service request. That’s it.”
Right.
We’re here because Hayden needs pastries for a funeral reception, specifically from Mrs. Hensley’s. Paula Hensley isn’t technically a professional baker, just a woman in her seventies who’s turned dough into a lifelong calling and accepts zero criticism.
“Paula,” Hayden says coolly, ever the picture of neighborly cheer as we approach her stall. “Good morning.”
Paula narrows her eyes at him over a tray of pain au chocolat. “Oh,” she says flatly, wiping her apron, “it’s you.”
“I wasn’t aware you had such a glowing reputation,” I whisper in Hayden’s ear.
He ignores me, tilting his head slightly. “Yes, me. Hope you’ve been well.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m…alive.”
I blink between them. “Am I missing something?”
Before Hayden can respond, Paula makes a vague, dismissive gesture toward a basket of sandwiches at the far end of the stall. “He knows what he did.”
Hayden pinches the bridge of his nose. “For the last time, I did not hit that bird.”
I nearly choke on my own breath.
“Wait, the infamous pigeon fight?” I gasp.
Hayden nods, lips pulled in a tight line.
Paula scoffs, looking wholly unamused. “The poor thing was just hungry, and you swatted at it.”
“I defended my meal,” Hayden corrects. “That bird was a nuisance.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say, trying, and failing, not to grin. “This is where you waged war with a pigeon over your favorite sandwich?”
“In my defense, it was an excellent sandwich,” he mutters.
Paula huffs. “You traumatized the poor thing.”
“Did you apologize?” I ask, delighted by how all of this is unfolding. “To the bird, I mean.”
“You’re not helping,” he snaps between clenched teeth.
I have tears in my eyes. Actual tears. Paula hands me a croissant in solidarity. “On me, sweetheart. For putting up with him.”
“Public service is underpaid,” I declare, taking a dramatic bite while Hayden glares like he’s considering legal action.
“I’ll just take two dozen scones, Paula. Assorted is fine and we’ll be out of your way,” Hayden says, his shoulders slumped.
Paula packs up his order with a smirk. As we step away, I bump Hayden’s shoulder. “Favorite story about you, hands down.”
“I will walk into traffic and you’ll be to blame,” he says, straight-faced.
I grin, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow. Despite his scowl, he lets me.
· · ·
The air is crisp and the town’s golden light glows in the darkness. A breeze lifts the edges of the blanket we’re lying on, rustling the fabric of my coat, which I tug tighter around my shoulders.
Hayden lies beside me, long legs stretched out, his arms behind his head as he takes in the sky.
The moon shines silver against the velvet dark, stars sharp and endless.
The kind of night that feels bigger than everything else.
Like the world has cracked open, offering a glimpse of something infinite.
He hasn’t spoken, but I see it in the restless shift of his shadows, the tension in his fingers against the blanket.
“You ever wonder why humans search for meaning in the sky?” he whispers.
I shift toward him so that I’m resting on one elbow, watching as he studies the constellations above us.
“They looked up,” he continues, gaze unchanged, “and saw their own stories reflected at them. Orion, sword raised, forever hunting the heavens. Andromeda, chained to the rocks, waiting to be saved. Perseus, riding through the cosmos with Medusa’s head in hand.
They weren’t just stars, they were love letters carved into the sky.
Proof people mattered enough to be remembered. ”
Something about the way he says it tugs at a place in me I didn’t know was still tender.
I follow the familiar dots overhead. Shapes I’ve known my whole life but never really seen. Light and distance. That’s all they were to me.
But to Hayden, they’re echoes.
“Did you ever know them?” I ask, barely above a breath.
He hesitates.
“Some,” he admits. “In bits and pieces. Orion made himself known. Loud and arrogant, but good-hearted. He drank too much, fell too hard, and people loved him anyway.”
I huff a laugh. “Sounds familiar.”
Hayden shoots me a look, lips twitching. “Oh, shut up.”
My grin lingers, but the weight of the moment doesn’t lift. Not entirely.
Because I feel it now, hovering over his words, stitched into the seams of his shadows. The things he’s not quite saying. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees, and press. “And where are you?”
He’s quiet, long enough that I think he might not answer, and I can’t help wondering where he really goes when he disappears behind those careful words and guarded looks.
“They never looked for me in the stars,” he says at last.
The words land like a stone in my chest. I turn my head, watching the way his jaw tightens as his shadows coil at the edges of his expression. The way his gaze flickers from the heavens above to me.
“People built their myths around kings and heroes,” he says, almost like a confession. “But me? I was the shadow under their feet. No one wanted the underworld in the sky.”
My throat goes tight. What do you say to someone who’s spent lifetimes watching the world honor everyone but him? Someone who’s carved purpose out of loneliness because no one offered him a place to stand?
I think of my garden plans spread across my desk…rows and grids and sketches of what could bloom. A blueprint of hope. Trying to build something living out of what was empty. The same thing Hayden’s been doing inside me without even realizing it.
I shift closer, palm cupping his cheek, exhaling when I watch him lean into my touch. “They have no idea what they missed out on.”
He swallows hard but doesn’t pull away. The stars above us remain unmoving, endless.
But down here, beneath them, something shifts.
Hayden sighs, low and tired, and tips his head slightly, just enough so that his lips brush against mine.
I lace my fingers with his, squeezing tightly, grounding us both.
“Stars wouldn’t shine without darkness to hold them,” I whisper gently. “Maybe darkness isn’t emptiness. Maybe it’s what makes the light matter.”
His lips tremble against mine, and for a moment, the air is thick with words unspoken. So quietly I almost miss it, he whispers, “You…see me there?”
I smile, thumb grazing the soft line of his cheek. “Among the stars? Always.”
Something unclenches in him. Something small but seismic.
We don’t speak on the walk back, just brush shoulders and breathe the same cold air, carrying a little bit of starlight between us.
Back home though, as we move through the small rituals of the evening…
brushing teeth, dimming lamps, the easy silence of two people settling into the same rhythm…
I feel the change creep in. All week, I’ve held it back with laughter and movement.
With Hayden’s hands, his body, his steady presence…
piecing me together into something shiny and new.
But by the time we crawl beneath the sheets, my back to him, the looming date on the calendar sits heavy on my chest, each breath harder to draw as I let the darkness pull me under.