Fifteen minutes later, he turns down a narrow, tree-lined lane I swear I’ve never seen. The car slows, crunching over gravel, until we come to a stop in front of what can only be described as a hidden gem.
A stunning old stone building, ivy crawling up its sides, windows tall and arched like something out of a fairy tale.
I blink, genuinely stunned. “What…is this? I’ve lived here forever and never knew this existed.”
“A library,” he says, killing the engine. He slips off his sunglasses, that disarming smirk in place. “The town tucked it away decades ago when they built the new one. Not exactly advertised.”
“Hidden Stonevale history? Guess even lifelong locals still miss a few things.”
“Come on. You’ll love it.”
We step out, and the cold bites my skin. The building looms in front of us, elegant and timeless.
Inside, the air is warm, filled with that charming blend of old paper, polished wood, and history. The floors creak slightly under my feet, the sound swallowed by the towering shelves that stretch toward the vaulted ceilings. Sunlight spills through stained glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the worn rugs and reading tables scattered throughout.
“It’s…incredible,” I breathe, my eyes darting around, trying to take it all in. “A secret library. That’s aggressively on-brand, Harlow.”
Hayden’s hands slide into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. “I hoped you’d like it.”
We start walking the aisles, the hush of the space settling around us like a soft blanket. I trail my fingers across all the shelves as we pass, row after row of books from every era in time.
“So…” I nudge him with my shoulder. “What’s it like being ancient? Wake up sore? Need a walker? Fiber supplements?”
He huffs a laugh. “Charming.”
“No, seriously. Do you ever wake up and think, ‘Ah, yes, another millennium’?”
Hayden shakes his head, but there’s a softness to his smile that makes my heart do that annoying flip thing.
“Not exactly,” he says. “Mostly, I think about coffee.”
We wander deeper into the maze of shelves, our footsteps soft and our shoulders brushing just often enough to make me wonder if it’s intentional as the conversation flows easily. Questions about his past, stories from centuries I can’t imagine, peppered with my dumb commentary that makes him roll his eyes fondly.
We stumble upon a dusty old book in a display case, its pages yellowed with age. It’s an illustrated manuscript, and there, infaded ink, is a depiction of the Greek gods. Dramatic poses, flowing robes, all muscle and intensity.
I lean in, studying the drawing, aware of Hayden stepping close enough that I can feel his breath warm the side of my neck. The artist clearly had a flair for the theatric. Sharp cheekbones, an imposing stance, obedient shadows curling around his feet. Compared to the broad, striking figures of his family, Hades is drawn slightly leaner, his posture more withdrawn, like he’s already bored of the scene unfolding around him. They got that part right. The air of disinterest, the subtle tilt of his head as if none of it really mattered. But they missed the truth of him. The loneliness that never really left. The grief carved into the quiet spaces of his expression. The softness no one was ever meant to notice.
It doesn’t compare.
Not to the real thing.
The drawing is dramatic for drama’s sake, but Hayden…Hayden carries it without trying. Effortless. Understated. Gravity just bends toward him out of habit. Standing beside him now, I’m beginning to glean it’s not arrogance. It’s defense. When you’ve lived lifetimes apart from everyone you’ve ever loved, maybe it’s the only way to survive.
I tilt my head. “Wow. They really didn’t do you justice.”
Hayden snorts, shaking his head. “I was never that into the theatrics of it all.”
“Oh, please,” I tease. “Says the guy who wears all black and broods competitively.”
His mouth quirks and my gaze drags there helplessly. His lips part like he’s caught between wanting and waiting. For me. For something he’s not ready to ask for. I see the ache of someone who’s always been standing just outside the frame of his own life. Watching everyone else belong, and suddenly, the room feels too small.
We drift deeper into the labyrinth of shelves, the quiet hum of the library settling around us. Hayden’s steps are measured and unhurried, his fingers brushing the spines of books like he’s greeting old friends.
For once, I’m not the one talking. Which…is a rarity.
“So,” Hayden says suddenly, his voice low and smooth. “We’ve covered my extensive résumé. God of the underworld, funeral director, occasional brooder…your words,” he adds. “I’d say it’s your turn.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “Oh? You want my origin story?”
