I blink. “How’d you…”
“You said ‘simple and timeless’ without gagging. Had to be him.”
I shake my head. “You’re annoying.”
“Only when I’m right.”
He steps back, resting a hip against the counter again. “I’m happy for you.”
And he means it. There’s no sarcasm, no wounded pride. Just something settled. Because even the smallest endings make room for the right beginnings.
“If it crashes and burns or if you ever need lemon bars…strictly platonic ones, of course,” he adds, gesturing toward the box, “I know a guy.”
I grin. “Thanks, Ez.”
He salutes with two fingers and is gone.
Naomi appears in the doorway, arms folded. “Levi. Thirty seconds, then I repo your apron.”
She leans on the frame, her clipboard balanced against one hip. She’s already texted me twice today about rescheduling a campus volunteer touchpoint for the garden. Somehow, she’s helping me juggle my dream project, handling a full course load, and keeping me on schedule…and still looks unbothered.
I roll my eyes but she’s right. I get moving, packing the van with the kind of care most people reserve for glass or grief, while Naomi tucks her phone under her chin, confirming with a supplier about a missing mulch order while I secure the centerpiece like it’s a newborn.
When we arrive at Harlow and Sons, Irene is already waitingat the door. She gestures for us to come in, her gaze lingering for a second on the largest arrangement. The cascading centerpiece of white dahlias, trailing ivy, and delicate orchids tucked between layers of soft petals. I poured more than skill into this; I poured my whole heart.
“In here,” Irene says, leading us into the visitation room. The space is warm but subdued. Soft lighting, dark wood accents, chairs arranged in precise rows.
Hayden is already there.
All polished edges and dark fabric, standing still at the center. He adjusts a chair, straightens a frame. Hair perfectly in place, not a strand daring to rebel, but there’s a softness in the line of his shoulders I can’t quite name.
I want to say something. To wave or smile from across the room. But the air feels different here. He’s notmyHayden here. He’s someone else. Someone essential. The kind of steadiness you only notice when it’s gone.
Irene points out where she wants the arrangements, and Naomi and I get to work. We move around the room quietly, setting the flowers with careful intention. The stark whites create a beautiful contrast against the darker wood, softening the space without overwhelming it.
Marjorie Caldwell, stoic and hollow eyed, reaches for Hayden’s hand mid-sentence.
His fingers curl gently around hers, grounding her without words. It’s such a simple gesture. Nothing performative about it. No need to comfort for the sake of appearances. It’s just…him.
When we finish setting up, Naomi gathers her things, glancing at me. “Should we head back?”
I linger, eyes still on Hayden as he moves through the room, his role shifting from director to anchor. “You go ahead,” I say. “I’ll walk back later.”
She doesn’t question my decision. “Okay. I put the inventory notes you asked for on your desk.”
“I appreciate you.”
After she leaves, Irene passes by again, pausing briefly. “The arrangements are quite lovely,” she says. “You’re more than welcome to stay for the service.”
I nod, my throat tight. “I’d like that.”
I slip into a seat near the back, tucked just out of sight, and watch Hayden from here like I’m studying a constellation. Distant, steady, quietly burning. Only hours ago I was buried in ribbons and invoices; now I’m sitting in a hush of white flowers watching Hayden in full-blown funeral director mode.
He moves like air. Subtle and inevitable. The kind of force you don’t notice until you’re already pulled into orbit.
And maybe that’s what unnerves me most.
Because I spent years avoiding rooms like this. Funerals, memorials, anything that smells faintly of endings. Yet here I am, willingly staying in one, watching the man I’m falling for make peace with death like it’s an old friend. The irony doesn’t escape me.
