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 atDance 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 inStonevale 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.”
