He closes his laptop, leaning back. “Good. Now you can cross something major off your anxious little to-do list.”
“They’re meticulous notes,” I insist, faking offense.
“Anxious little notes,” he repeats lovingly.
I roll my eyes, standing and stretching. “Alright, let’s go. I’ve got an offer letter to write, and maybe I’ll casually remind Hayden trivia’s every Friday.”
He shakes his head fondly. “You’re unbearable.”
“Me? I’m just looking out for our trivia team’s best interests.”
Elijah snorts as we leave the cluttered office behind. But deep down, I know the truth. If I can draw Hayden Harlow back into our chaotic circle, maybe the mask slips.
And when it does, I want to be there to see him. Not the mystery.Him.
7
Hayden
My apartment issilent except for the gentle scrape of cleaning Seby’s litter box, a task suited to a man built on quiet rituals no one notices. Even Seby only flicks his tail from the doorway. Supervising, not keeping me company.
“Don’t look so smug,” I mutter. “It’s unbecoming.”
He blinks, entirely unbothered.
I sigh, set the scoop aside, lean back against the wall, and replay my exchange with Levi after trivia…again. The way his expression had shifted after I’d snapped at him.
Am I a joke for you and your friends?
I close my eyes, cringing internally at the memory.
I’d spent centuries maintaining careful distance, fully aware of my reputation. But hearing it echoed back, even as playful teasing, stung more than I’d expected. From Dominic, his husband, the rest of Stonevale…I understood the jokes, their curiosity. From Levi? It felt like being seen wrong. Like I’d risked showing a little of myself and was mistaken for a caricature.
Seby pads softly across the floor, brushing against my leg with a quiet purr of reassurance. I reach down absently, gently stroking behind his ears. “Maybe I’m overreacting,” I murmur. He tilts hishead up, blinking at me with solemn eyes, as if to confirm the sentiment.
Or maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like to let someone get this close. To risk being known is to risk being misunderstood.
Seby wanders off, apparently satisfied that I’ve reached some internal conclusion. I stand slowly and make my way to the couch, shaking off any lingering self-doubt. Levi is the sort of man who deserves a concrete version of me. Someone willing to meet him halfway and not retreat at the first hint of misunderstanding. But there’s more than one thing I’m craving from him.
Connection, yes. Understanding, certainly.
But not to bury the lede…I think I want to sleep with him.
Uncomplicated, sweaty, possibly ill-advised sex.
I’m painfully attracted to Levi, who is a walking temptation in denim and sunshine, and I’m only a man. A complicated former god, sure. But a man nonetheless.
If he wanted this…me…I wouldn’t say no. Not even close.
Something raw and immediate: a reminder that despite centuries of restraint and more lonely nights alphabetizing death certificates than I care to admit, I’m still capable of wanting something primal.
So, with all the dignity of a man cleaning cat litter on a Monday night, I open the App Store, typeGrindr, and press “re-download” like I’m summoning an ancient demon I swore I’d banish.
The app is exactly as I remember. An endless blur of mirror selfies, clenched jaws, and profiles that swing between transactional and outright dismissive. Desire reduced to thumbnails and half sentences. No coins for the ferryman, just taps.
I sigh, sinking farther into my worn leather couch. The lamp beside me casts a warm glow, illuminating a room filled with jazz records and shelves lined meticulously with books. Quiet companions for endless evenings. But tonight, the books remain untouched,and jazz feels inadequate for my current reality: scrolling headless torsos, which means…I am undeniably horny.
There was a time when desire was effortless, uncomplicated. In the underworld, if I wanted company, for one night or one century, I barely had to lift a finger. Even here on earth, my relationships had stretched across centuries, each one a reflection of the time. The decadence of Rome; the passion of the Renaissance; the reckless, booze-fueled haze of the 1920s. Polyamory was common. Threesomes? Expected. If you weren’t at least dabbling in BDSM in the eighteenth century, were you even doing it right?
