A stray thought hits before I can stop it: Hayden’s been here forever. Longer than anyone. Long enough that he must’ve seen every loss this town has weathered. Long enough that he could have been here then, on that day.
The one I never talk about.
The idea lodges, heavy, but I push it down. Because right now, he isn’t the myth or the god or even the keeper of the dead.
He’s just Hayden.
The way he stands in this room, shoulders straight and eyes gentle, makes me think maybe love isn’t about outrunning grief but learning to live beside it.
As the service begins, Hayden steps forward. Not to speak, but to simply be there. To exist as a steady presence in a room full offragile hearts. He stays at the edges, pausing to clasp a hand, to offer a gentle nod, to whisper something I can’t hear but feel all the same.
People look at him like he’s holding their sorrow in cupped hands. Not reverence, relief. Like he’s not just managing the logistics of death butbearingthe weight of it for them, even if just for a little while.
This isn’t the brooding funeral director who pretends he’s above it all. This is a man who speaks grief fluently without saying a single word.
His shadows, the tendrils of darkness that always seem to dance in his periphery, are quiet here. In this space, doingthis, he doesn’t need to retreat into the dark. He is the light.
And I wonder if he even realizes it.
I watch him throughout the service. Guiding family members with a gentle touch of the elbow, offering a tissue to someone just as their tears start to fall. It’s like he’s giving pieces of himself without ever running out.
For a man who claims to prefer solitude, he’s extraordinary at making people feel held.
When the service ends, Hayden remains.
I don’t move, either. I sit there, absorbing it all, realizing I’m seeing Hayden in a way most people never will.
In the hush of white flowers and candlelight, it’s clear I’m not still falling. I’m already gone.
And I don’t want to be found.
• • •
I lean againstHayden’s car, hands tucked into my jacket pockets, as the last mourners trickle out.
Hayden steps through the doors, his shoulders squared out of habit, but there’s a heaviness in his posture that wasn’t thereearlier. His mask of stoicism is firmly in place, but it’s already cracking.
His eyes find mine and the whole parking lot tilts. No smile. No bravado. Just Hayden.
Raw and unraveling.
He closes the space between us with long, determined strides and folds into me, forehead to my neck, breath uneven.
“Come home with me,” he says, voice splintering. Not a plea but a man barely holding it together.
And how the hell could I say no to that?
He doesn’t let go until we’re inside his apartment, and even then, he keeps me close, as if as soon as he lets go, he’ll dissolve. Coat and shoes forgotten, like being even a few feet apart is unbearable.
I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the tension in his body as he rests his head on my shoulder.
“I was going to tell you…” I start softly, my hand trailing up and down his strong back, “the service was beautiful. You…”
But I don’t get to finish.
Hayden kisses me like he needs to remember how to feel. No grace, just hunger.
When we break apart, his forehead stays pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard. He’s trembling. Not from the cold, but from something deeper.
