The truth is I’m still not entirely sure how permanent this “retirement” is. I didn’t bother reading the fine print or asking the right questions at the time, but centuries later, the doubt still curls relentlessly at the edge of my mind. We were told the Act was irreversible, sealed in thread and decree. But if the world can forget its gods, who’s to say the laws binding the Act can’t unravel, too? Maybe nothing is as final as they’d have us believe.
In any case, here I am, stuck in this existence as Hayden Harlow, a god reduced to paperwork and forced mortal mundanity.
When I arrive at Full Bloom, the bell chimes, jarringly, and inside, it’s an explosion of color. Tulips, peonies, ivy climbing everything. A visual representation of all that I despise.
And there he is.
Of course it’s him. Levi Wilder is standing behind the counter like some sun-kissed warning sign.
His hair is the first thing I notice. Shocking red and unruly in a way that feels intentional. Like it’s never once obeyed a comb and never been asked to. It’s longer around his ears and curls upward slightly at the nape of his neck, catching the light like copper set on fire. His freckles, plenty of them, scatter across his nose, cheeks, and collarbones, glowing as if the sun took the time to dot him by hand.
He’s tall, broad shouldered, and radiating light like it’s his job. There’s a kind of maddening ease to the way he moves. Fluid, confident, unhurried. A vivid flame at the heart of this floral chaos.
Normally, this type of man would repulse me. Or at the veryleast, test the limits of my patience. All that golden-hour charm and openhearted sincerity. It’s too much.
But when Levi glances up from a mess of wrapping paper, green eyes wide and unbothered, like I’m just another person wandering into his corner of the world, I feel something shift in my chest. The unmistakable weight of being seen. Not the passing glance I’ve grown used to, but real attention. The kind that lingers. The way sunlight is when you’ve trained yourself to see in the dark. For a heartbeat, I’m not invisible, and something inconvenient hums just beneath the surface. Curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps the early symptoms of a migraine.
“Morning!” he says, utterly unaware…or uncaring…of my irritation.
I drop the sunflowers on the counter with the subtle grace of someone about to start an argument. “Mr. Wilder?”
“That’s me,” he says, grin in place. “But…it’s Levi. No formalities here.”
“Hayden Harlow. From Harlow and Sons Funeral Home. We ordered lilies.”
Something in his posture shifts. “Oh, I know who you are,” he assures me, reminding me just how small Stonevale really is.
I blink, momentarily taken by surprise. People in this town rarely acknowledge me beyond polite necessity. Certainly never with recognitionthiscasual. This…personal.
Levi continues without pause, his eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than they should. “I was actually going to call about the lilies. The arrangement was for Ruth, right? Ruth Masterson?” He doesn’t ask like a supplier, but a neighbor confirming a fond memory.
I clear my throat, regaining my composure. “Correct,” I say flatly.
He nods, more gently now. “She used to get sunflowers every week. Even in the dead of winter. Said they made her think of her mother.” He gestures to the bouquet between us. “So, I made a judgment call.”
The words land like a rock in a still pond.
His familiarity with the dead catches me off guard. Like he knew her.
But despite that, despite everything reasonable in me that says he was trying to do something kind, I can’t let it slide.
“That’s…touching,” I say, slower now, more measured. “But we honor the dead by respecting the traditions that hold space for the grief of their loved ones. Not by turning their funeral into a celebration of your personal anecdotes.”
He lifts his brows but doesn’t argue. “I wasn’t trying to disrespect the family. I just thought,” he says, his eyes shining with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to hurl myself into traffic, “something bright might help people breathe a little easier. Funerals can be so heavy.”
“That’s the assignment,” I snap before I can stop myself, suddenly unsure why we’re even having this conversation. “Funerals aren’t meant to be a spectacle.”
Levi’s expression softens into something more teasing. “Maybe they should be,” he says. “Life’s messy and vibrant, even at the end. Why not reflect that?”
“That’s not your call to make.” And even I’m surprised at how harsh it sounds aloud.
A pause. He nods, a little more serious now. “Understood.”
I exhale. “Just…please don’t take creative liberties with my orders again.”
He presses his lips together, as if trying not to smile. “Fine. But when everyone walks in thinking they’ve stumbled onto the set ofCSI: Funeral Home, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A twitch of a smile threatens. Almost. “I’ll…keep that in mind.”
