Hayden
I don’t know whyI agreed to this.
I don’t do coffee dates. Or dates of any kind. My life is reserved for two things: routine and order. And letting Levi Wilder bulldoze into my schedule with his bright, chatty demeanor is the opposite of both.
Yet here I am, across from him in a café that smells like vanilla, pretending I don’t already regret it.
“So,” Levi says, leaning forward with a grin, “why funerals?”
“What?” My chest tightens.
“Funerals,” he repeats, propping his chin on his hand like it’s the best question he’ll ask all week. “Why did you choose to run a funeral home?”
I stare at him, unsure how to respond. It’s not that the question is inappropriate. It’s just…direct. Mortals tend to avoid asking about my line of work unless they’re in immediate need of it.
“I didn’t ‘choose’ it,” I say finally. “It chose me.”
Levi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That sounds vaguely haunted.”
“Death doesn’t need to haunt me. We’re long acquainted.” Icross my arms, an unnerving discomfort prickling the back of my neck. “It’s efficient,” I add. “Predictable. Quiet in the ways I prefer.”
Levi hums thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on me with open interest. “Okay, but…that’s not really an answer. Care to elaborate?”
I pause, noticing a group of women at a table nearby whispering and stealing glances in our direction. Levi follows my gaze, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“You realize you’re kind of a mystery around here, right?” he asks, his voice low. “Stonevale’s hot, broody funeral director who no one can quite figure out. They’re probably dying to know what finally dragged you into the daylight.”
I shift slightly, absorbing Levi’s words. I’ve spent years carefully crafting my distance. I thought my solitude made me invisible. Instead, it only made people more curious.
It’s unsettling to realize the town has such a clearly defined image of me. Formed without my awareness or consent. And it’s even stranger how readily Levi seems to see past it. Being seen is a risk. Being unseen is a sentence. I haven’t decided which is worse.
“Small towns,” I murmur. “Easy to forget how much people talk.”
“Especially when the subject is you,” Levi says, warm rather than accusing. “Not that I blame them. You’ve officially become the main event at Stonevale’s daily moms’ brunch. Congrats.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Should I wave?”
“Absolutely not,” Levi says solemnly, shaking his head. “Wave and they’ll pounce. It’ll just encourage them. Trust me, the PTA has been circling your broody aura like sharks for years. Do not give them an opening.”
I let out a quiet huff, and he laughs into his cup. Somehow, he makes being the subject of local gossipalmostcharming. “Youasked why funerals,” I say, shifting the subject. “Because death is certain. The only constant I’ve ever understood.”
He nods, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. Predictability can be comforting. It’s part of why I started gardening in the first place. There’s something satisfying about doing the right things…the right soil, the right sunlight…and something beautiful grows. Unless it’s basil. Basil’s a diva.”
I wonder if Levi even knows how easily he talks about life. As if it’s something he can coax from the dirt with nothing but warmth and stubborn will. He speaks of roots and sunlight the way I used to speak of order and endings. I nod, relieved to let him take over the conversation. “And that’s why you opened a flower shop?”
“Partly,” he says, his lips pulling into a smile. “The other part was my mom. She had this backyard greenhouse. Roses, hydrangeas, you name it. She said flowers could fix the world. Honestly? She almost made me believe it. She’d let my little brother and me ‘help,’ which mostly meant getting dirt in places dirt should never be.”
I shouldn’t be watching his mouth. But I am. It’s the kind of distraction that pretends to be harmless…until it isn’t.
There’s something reckless in his smile, his hair catching sunlight like fire. Like he doesn’t realize he’s dangerous. Or worse, maybe he does. He’s animated, his hands moving as he speaks, light spilling from every gesture, and it’s…distracting.
Because beneath all that brightness, I can sense an ache threaded through his laughter. Hurt dressed up as charm. He wears it well, but my shadows still recognize it. They always do.
“And before?” he asks, pulling me back into the conversation. “What did you do before the funeral home?”
I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. “I worked in…management,” I say. It’s not technically a lie. Rulingthe underworldwasa form of management, for all intents and purposes.
High-stakes, eternal management, but still.
