Dominic lifts his own in agreement. “To Levi’s questionable romantic choices. May they forever entertain us.”
“Fuck you both,” I say warmly, clinking glasses.
“Oh, honey,” Dominic purrs, patting my hand sympathetically. “We’ve been there, tried that…you knowexactlyhow it went.”
Elijah sips his wine. “Ah yes, the infamous night two bottoms realized they have absolutely no idea what to do with each other.”
Dominic gasps, clearly offended. “Excuse me, I am versatile.”
His husband gives him a pitying look. “Sure you are, sweetie. And I’m still a twink.”
We burst out laughing, the kind of full-body, chest-aching laughter that only comes from a lifetime of shared embarrassment and closeness. It hits me how deeply I love these two. How completely lost I’d be without their unwavering support. Family isn’t always who raised you. Sometimes it’s who heckles you over pasta and wine until you can’t breathe.
Maybe tomorrow’s happy hour will help me forget Hayden.
Or…it’ll just make things worse.
3
Hayden
I stand in mykitchen, arms crossed, contemplating a plumber’s backside.
Centuries spent watching civilizations rise and fall left me laughably unprepared for the exquisite boredom of Greg versus faucet.
He emits a series of muffled curses and heavy sighs alongside the squeal of a wrench meeting stubborn metal.
Mortals shrug at these minor setbacks, never clocking the endless cycle of tedious tasks eating away their lives. And I, with all the time in the world, waste it like this. Idle and helplessly observing.
I hate it.
“Almost finished?” I ask, checking my watch. Eight thirty-two. City hall looms and Greg’s battle with the sink is now a threat to punctuality.
Greg emerges, sweaty and sheepish, like he’s been wrestling a hydra instead of a copper pipe. “Just one more minute. Should be good.”
“Should be,” I echo, calm but doubtful.
He catches my tone and offers a reassuring if uncertain smile. “I’ve got this.”
I nod. What else can I do?
Greg returns to his struggle, grumbling softly under his breath. The wrench shrieks again, sending a shiver up my spine. The days of summoning silence with a mere thought feel like a distant memory. Now even peace is beyond my grasp.
Perhaps that’s what terrifies me more than leaks or lateness. How easily the world moves on. A drip, a delay, and I’m irrelevant. Forgotten.
Seby mews and curls back on the sofa, his molten amber eyes blinking in either sympathy or annoyance. I’m not overly affectionate—I’ve never been one to coo or fuss, can you imagine?—but he tolerates me when I stroke his storm-cloud-gray fur. Our relationship is built upon mutual respect and an unspoken agreement: I buy the obscenely priced tuna; he sits with me in companionable silence while I work.
My eyes find the clock again. Eight thirty-eight. I can’t afford to be late. Not when every minute at city hall might be the difference between being forgotten forever…or not.
Finally, Greg straightens again, an uncomfortable look spreading across his face. “Still leaking,” he admits, as though it’s a personal failure. “Looks like it might need a different tool or something. Trickier than I expected.”
Trickier. The understatement nearly draws a smile from me. “Understood,” I say, though inside I’m sighing deeply. “Perhaps we should reschedule?”
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “Tomorrow morning work?”
“Perfect,” I reply with a polite nod, and I escort him out. He apologizes again, and I wave it off with practiced ease, closing the door behind him.
With him gone, I regard the sink that’s mocking me with its persistent drip.
