Chapter 24
Hayden
For the first time in my existence, I can breathe.
Not in the shallow, measured way I’ve spent centuries perfecting. But in a way that’s deep and full, like I’m finally living. Like I’ve found something worth holding on to.
These weeks with Levi feel stolen, almost like I’ve outwitted fate, ironically. Like I’ve carved out a piece of this mortal life just for me. I don’t question it. I don’t analyze it. I just let it be.
The past doesn’t feel as heavy. City hall, the Act, all my looping thoughts of loopholes…faded into the background.
And him. Levi. He’s made a home in my orbit, and I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside anymore, watching everything and everyone move around me. I’m in it. With him.
I think of his laugh constantly. His ridiculous form of storytelling and the way he smells like sun-warmed florals and the faintest trace of coffee. The whimper when I kiss his neck.
I’m in my office, poring over the details of an upcoming funeral service with Irene, but my mind keeps wandering back to him. I pull out my phone, typing a quick message.
Me: How’s my favorite florist?
I wait for his usual immediate reply. Some absurd GIF or exaggerated voice note about an unruly plant he’s grown quite fond of.
Nothing.
Odd. He’s probably busy. I push it aside, promising I’ll try later.
Irene says something, and I nod absently, eyes flickering to my screen. The empty space where Levi’s response should be.
Two torturous hours later, I try again.
Me: Just thinking of you. xx
Still nothing.
The phone feels heavier than it is. I set it face down and return to my work, telling myself everything is fine.
But a strange feeling starts to settle in my gut, and I shove it down.
· · ·
Twenty-four hours.
Not a word from Levi.
I don’t overthink. I pride myself on logic. But this silence feels wrong.
I stare at my phone, fingers hovering over the screen. Text again? Should I call? Show up at his shop like some lovesick fool? I can practically hear Levi’s teasing voice in my head: Wow, someone’s obsessed with me.
And maybe I am. Maybe that’s what terrifies me. Because I let him in. I let him in. And now? He’s…seemingly gone. I drag my hand down my face, exhaling sharply. I’m being ridiculous. There are a million reasons why he’s been unresponsive. He could be sick or swamped with orders or—
Or worse, he’s changed his mind.
The thought strikes me like a blade to the gut. I stand abruptly, pacing the length of my office. Irene glances up, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t comment. I can’t sit here. I can’t.
So, I grab my coat.
The moment I enter Full Bloom, I know something’s wrong.
Dominic is at the counter, leaning in close to Naomi, their voices hushed. When I shut the door behind me, they exchange a look. One I don’t like.
Dominic is the first to speak. “Hey, Hayden.” His voice is careful, like he’s trying to gauge how much to say.
I cut straight to the point. “Where’s Levi?”
Naomi tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “He…took a sick day. Another one.”
I may not know Levi as well as Dominic or Elijah, but I know him enough to know that he rarely takes a day off. Let alone two in a row.
My jaw tightens. “Is he…okay?”
They hesitate.
Then Dominic sighs, pulling a key from his pocket. “Here.” He presses it into my palm.
I frown. “What’s this?”
“Spare key to his loft,” Dominic says simply, nodding at the stairs. “Go.”
I linger at the top of the stairwell, heart drumming like a frantic hummingbird in my chest. But my hesitation is quickly overtaken by something stronger.
I take the key, the metal cool and solid in my trembling fingers, and slide it into the lock and turn.
The door gives easily, swinging open without resistance.
The moment I step inside, it hits me.
Grief.
It’s not the kind I’ve spent centuries managing, the kind that passes through me, brief and fleeting, a transaction of sorrow before I move on.
No, this is different. It’s thick and suffocating, sticking to my skin like the heavy heat before a storm breaks.
An ache so deep and ancient it feels carved from stone.
I exhale, forcing my feet forward, letting my senses adjust.
Levi’s apartment feels hollow. Like the air has been sucked out, like the grief has swallowed the space whole.
He’s curled in bed, swallowed by blankets. A shadow of himself, dimmed in a way that makes my chest pull tight. I move cautiously, every step weighted with the fear I might break something already fragile. He doesn’t flinch when I lower myself onto the edge of the mattress.
“Levi,” I say softly.
Nothing.
I reach out and thread my fingers into his hair. He shifts, eyes cracking open, red rimmed, unfocused.
And fuck.
I’ve seen grief before. Obviously. I’ve stood in rooms packed with mourners, held hands with the devastated, whispered words of comfort. I’ve watched the way sorrow can shape a person, dull their edges, hollow them out.
But I have never…never…felt it like this.
Because Levi’s grief isn’t just present. It’s consuming him. Unresolved. Unbridled. Unforgiving.
“Talk to me,” I whisper, though part of me already knows he can’t.
“I…” Levi swallows, eyes glassy and distant. “I think…if I open that door today, I’m afraid it won’t shut again.”
That cracks something in me. So, I don’t ask him to. I stand in the figurative doorway with him instead. Because Levi is never still. Always moving. Always filling every room with light so fiercely you forget light can burn out.
And now?
Now, he’s silent. I shift closer, my hand resting over his wrist. His skin is warm but clammy. His fingers curled into the blanket like he’s holding on for dear life.
“You don’t need to talk,” I whisper gently, tracing circles over his wrist. “Just let me shoulder a piece of it. Even for a minute.”
Levi closes his eyes, shifting toward my touch, a silent admission that my presence, at least, isn’t unwanted. “Today’s the anniversary of my brother’s death.” Of course the silence had a date.
The words land between us, soft and weighted with years of unspoken sorrow.
I knew Levi was carrying something back at that café.
And suddenly I see it: The brightness, the banter, the endless warmth…
it’s all been laced through with grief. Every joke, every forced smile, every sunny greeting, carried its shadow.
It was always there, hiding in plain sight.
I hadn’t looked closely enough at the time. Not when I was too buried in my own noise. My rules, my loophole…being seen by him.
And maybe that’s why I felt pulled to him from the start. Not because I recognized it, but because grief has always found its way to me.
My grip on his wrist tightens. “I didn’t know.”
He nods, a short, jerky movement. “I never know how to talk about it, so I just…I don’t.”
And he doesn’t have to.
I feel it.
The kind of heartache that exists in the marrow of his bones and the way he holds himself.
In the way he smiles so fucking much.
Like if he stops smiling, he might disappear. A fierce protectiveness rises in me, sharp and urgent, a need to shield Levi from whatever made him think he had to carry this alone.
“Levi, I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
“Brent was young,” he whispers. “It was sudden. I remember sitting in your funeral home and everything felt…unreal. My parents were there but empty, faded versions of themselves. They stopped living, stopped seeing me, and I…just…” His throat bobs as he swallows.
“I tried to be the good son. The one they still had. Something to love. But it just made me invisible. Even to myself.”
Because I understand the way grief changes people. The way it gnaws away at you until you’re unrecognizable. The way loss makes you desperate to hold on to the people who remain.
“Is that why you…” I hesitate, unsure how to phrase it.
Levi opens his eyes, blinking at me. “Put on the happy face?” He attempts a small smile, failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
I don’t know what to say but I know what I can do. I start to stand, but something catches my eye…the small, cluttered surface of Levi’s nightstand.
A graveyard of half-finished beverages wedged between his plants. Wine, cold coffee, a can of seltzer stacked on a book.
It guts me more than it should.
I stand, smoothing out my slacks, and grab the glasses. “Let me get you some water.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.
I step into the small kitchen and reach for a clean glass. My hands are steady, mind focused on the simple task. I fill the glass. Turn to bring it back.
And then I see it.
A photograph taped to the fridge.
It’s Levi, years younger, grinning wide, an arm slung around a boy with the same fiery red hair, the same mischievous glint in his eyes.
My breath catches, a memory slamming into me like a tidal wave. I know that face. His name may have faded over time, but I never forget a face.
I remember preparing his tiny body. I remember the service. I vaguely remember a boy sitting in the front row, shoulders shaking, hands clasped so tightly it looked like if he let go, he’d shatter. I remember the family’s grief.
What I didn’t remember were his parents.
Not clearly. Faces blur the way the living sometimes do when grief consumes everything else.
I remember the weight of their sorrow more than their features.
The way their pain filled every corner of the room until it was all I could see.
I never connected them to the couple I sat across from at dinner.
Not until now.
Because this photograph doesn’t let me look away. This photograph ties it all together.
Because that’s what I did. That’s what I do. I help, and then I retreat.
But not this time. Not with Levi.