The words undo me more than any kiss could.
I stare at him for a long while. At the line of his collarbone, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes soften like he’s not afraid of being seen.
“I’m not sure I know the protocol,” I admit.
“I’d say you’re doing just fine,” he murmurs into my chest. “We’ll figure it out.”
The wine sits half finished, the cheese forgotten, and we lie back against the pillows, fingers laced, shadows dancing idly along the ceiling above us as if they’ve finally settled, too.
18
Hayden
Levi’s absence isimmediate.
It settles like a fog, dulling the edges of everything. He slipped out at dawn with a lingering kiss on my forehead and a whisper of a delivery at the flower shop. But my sheets still smell like him, like salt and citrus and something sweeter.
My mornings were always mine. A carefully structured solitude with Seby in my lap. Now, I reach for a mug and half expect him to be leaned against the counter in one of my shirts, barefoot and smirking like he owns the air.
But I don’t dwell on the thought. Habit drags me to city hall, as it always does on Wednesdays. A ritual just as ingrained as breakfast. Though even as I call the elevator, I feel it: The pull is weaker. The fight that once burned in my chest has dulled to something quieter, almost mechanical. For so long, I told myself that chasing the loophole was its own kind of happiness. Purpose masquerading as hope. A way to keep moving without ever having to feel still.
But now, guilt gnaws at me for noticing the truth. That even this, the only thing I’ve ever chosen for myself, is beginning to fade. And I don’t know what that says about me.
What I do know? Wanting him is beginning to sound more like me than wanting a loophole ever did.
The elevator groans like it resents the effort.
Behind the counter, all three of them sit like crows on a wire. Lorraine flips a folder lazily. “Back so soon, dear?”
“Can we skip the charades today?” I grind out. “You’re well aware of our standing appointment. Wednesdays. At nine. For eternity.”
“All business as always,” Agnes says, boredom dripping from her lips. “We’ve reviewed your latest submission regarding Immortal Retirement Clause 4C and”—she makes a show of flipping to a tabbed section in her folder—“it’s adorable how hard you’re still trying.”
“I satisfied every condition,” I snap. “Forms, stamps, your fetish for blue ink.”
“Oh, yes,” Constance says with a tight smile. “Blue ink. Such a tragedy.”
Agnes tilts her head. “You know, at some point, you might want to ask yourself what you’re actually fighting for. Because it’s starting to look less like desire and more like habit.”
She’s…not entirely wrong. My anger sparks, but their jabs don’t catch the way they used to. The conviction that once drove me here week after week, year after year, feels thinner. Much like my shadows, restless at my edges, I’m not sure what I’m clinging to anymore.
“Do you?” she presses. “Want it, I mean? Because from our vantage, it’s starting to look like someone’s found…other priorities.”
I stiffen. “Nothing’s changed,” I lie.
Constance tsks, straightening a stack of folders with unnecessary flair. “You’re so sure you’re the one holding the line. That the rest of them…Zane, Porter…left you to clean up their mess.”
“They did,” I snap.
“But youstayed,” Lorraine says calmly. “You keep coming back. To us. To this. The others walked away centuries ago. But here you are.”
“Someone has to hold the thread,” I growl, shadows twitching at my feet.
Agnes’s smile shifts, almost pitying. “Hold it too long, and it’ll only tighten.”
The silence stretches, the thick and uncomfortable kind. Constance eventually sets a fresh form on the counter. Form 13B-12, naturally. As if therewasn’talready a 13B-10 and 11 in the stack of folders she just shredded.
“This week’s revision,” she chirps. “Due next Wednesday. Or retire the performance.”
