Page 24

Chapter twenty-four

Levana

Patrick’s arm is heavy across my waist, warm and solid, pinning me in place as he presses a barely awake kiss to my shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” he mumbles into my skin.

I don’t.

I just lie there, eyes on the perfume bottles scattered across the nightstand.

Something’s off. I’ve felt it since I’ve been here. This low antsy hum under my skin, like I’m not supposed to be in this space. Like I’m intruding. Like if I rolled over, I’d see his wife standing in the doorway, staring at me.

Guilt knots tight in my stomach.

You’re not taking her place.

Patrick’s allowed to move on. It’s not wrong for me to be here.

Still…

I shift slightly, and my bladder lurches.

Carefully, I slip out from under his arm and grab my phone from the nightstand, trying not to wake him.

He mumbles something low and unintelligible into the mattress, but that’s all.

I step into the hallway and glance toward the far end.

I’ve caught Patrick standing outside the last room a few times now, always in the dead of night. Every time, he’s completely still, pressed against the door, staring at nothing. The first time he noticed me watching, he jumped like I’d shot him and snapped at me. I couldn’t really blame him. It must be strange having someone in your house after being so used to the solitary silence.

Since then, I haven’t said a word when I see him there. I just turn around and slip back into his room before he sees me—before I risk freaking him out again.

But what is it? It’s plain, no marks or signs. Is it an office? A storage room?

I don’t know, but now I’m really looking, it’s the door across from it that catches my eye.

There’s a name painted across the wood in uneven, colourful letters.

Alexander.

The letters are chipped at the edges, the R is peeling slightly at the corner, and there’s a small dinosaur sticker half-torn in the corner, faded from age.

My fingers tighten around my phone as I stare at it.

The truth is, I don’t really know much about his family.

Not really.

I’ve never wanted to push him.

I’ve hinted at things here and there. But I’ve always wanted him to come to me on his own terms, in his own time, not the other way around.

I know he had a wife. I know he had a son.

Thats all he’s shared.

Now I think about it… I haven’t seen a single photo of them here, I don’t even know what they look like. No framed pictures on the shelves. No wedding portrait above the fireplace. No school photos, no baby pictures stuck to the fridge.

Nothing.

It’s like they’ve been scrubbed out except for the few feminine touches in the bedroom.

And this one door. This one name. A fading sticker still clinging to the paint.

Alexander.

Maybe it would be okay to ask now, seeing as I’m staying here. Just a small question. Something soft.

I shake the thought off, use the bathroom, and then head down to the kitchen.

I fill a glass with water and lean against the counter.

It’s still early—that quiet hour in the morning when you’re waiting for the rest of the world to wake up.

The snow’s falling slow and steady, drifting like ash through the air. It’s blanketed the yard, and a few robins are scattered across it. Tiny flashes of red against all that white. They hop, flit and vanish into the hedges, leaving small trails of prints behind them.

I haven’t been outside since we got here. I was asleep the entire ride, and was only half awake when we walked inside, but from what I can tell, it’s pretty isolated. The kind of house that’s comfortably tucked away from everything else. No rooftops in sight, no cars passing, just trees in the distance, branches heavy with frost.

It’s so beautiful. I love it here. If my life had gone differently, I could’ve maybe seen myself living somewhere like this—hidden away from everyone and everything.

I sigh and pick up my phone.

I haven’t checked it since I’ve been here, but I’m going to have to call Gordon at some point.

Elliot : 28 Messages

My stomach roils at the sight.

I scroll through them, skimming most without really reading, but a few catch my eye.

Lev, I love you so much. Please, I swear I didn’t do that.

I’m trying to find somewhere to go. I’ll be gone as soon as I can so you can come home, I promise. I’m so sorry, Lev.

You should’ve been here today. One of the guys had “Another One Bites the Dust” playing at his service. I swear Gordon nearly fainted. You’d have loved it.

I’m so embarrassed, Lev. Please talk to me. I hate this.

Please don’t be with Patrick. I’m worried about you.

My thumb hovers over the screen like I might reply—like I might tell him he’s wrong. That Patrick’s been nothing but good to me. That he’s the only reason I can breathe right now.

But I don’t.

I lock my phone and set it face down on the counter, letting my eyes drift back to the snow.

I still don’t feel good. Not really.

My heart’s still cracked open, bruised and raw, and my body still feels like it’s been dragged up from the pits of hell.

Warm, solid arms circle around my waist, tugging me back against a familiar chest.

Patrick’s hands slip beneath the hem of my T-shirt, fingers stroking my stomach, gentle heat spreading under his touch.

“I told you to go back to sleep,” he mutters as his lips brush the side of my neck. “You want breakfast?”

“I want something ,” I say, leaning back into his chest and pressing my ass into him. He’s already hard beneath his sweats, and a smug little thrill sparks between my thighs.

He tenses and his breath catches, then he presses my stomach harder, so I curve into him more, like he needs me closer, tighter. He groans low in my ear and his hands slide lower, until they’re gripping the tops of my thighs, his thumbs meeting in the middle. It feels like he’s just one breath away from spreading me open right here, bending me over the counter and fucking into me with his fingers while we both stare out at the falling snow.

My heart’s pounding erratically in anticipation.

He leans in, teeth grazing my neck before he gives it a sharp little nip. “You’ve got to eat first.”

I huff. “Boring.”

He chuckles, then squeezes my thighs again, firmer this time as he rocks forward, hips grinding slow against me. He groans and lets out a sigh before stepping back and heading straight for the fridge.

By the time we’re sitting at the table, two steaming mugs of coffee sit between us, and the heat’s shifted into something calmer.

I’m staring down at my plate, picking at my toast, tearing it into tiny pieces. I can’t bring myself to eat any of it.

Patrick’s eyes are burning into the top of my head from across the table. “What’re you thinking about, baby?”

That name makes my stomach do a little flip again.

Our eyes meet when I look up at him. He’s leaning back, one arm draped over the back of the chair next to him, mug resting loosely in his hand.

I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to gather the right words, but they don’t come.

How the hell do I even bring it up?

“What’s wrong, Levana? Are you okay?”

I nod and swallow, trying to get it out. “Listen… I’ve never wanted to push you. Ever.”

He tilts his head a little, still watching me.

“I just… I noticed the door with the name ‘Alexander’ on it. And I felt like I needed to ask.”

His shoulders shift the tiniest bit as he readjusts himself in his chair.

“I don’t know. I just—I feel bad. That I’m here. In their space. Well. I mean, I know it’s your space, obviously, but—“ I shake my head. “I don’t know anything about them. And now I’m here and I feel like I’m… I don’t know. Like I’m being disrespectful somehow. And the last thing I want to be is—“

His hand closes over mine. “Levana.”

I freeze. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I wasn’t even going to say anything, I swear—“

“Levana,” he says again, softer this time. “It’s fine.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I don’t want to push or anything.”

He squeezes my hand. “I can tell you about them. If you want.”

My eyes flick up to his.

“Only if you’re comfortable.”

“Of course I’m comfortable. I love you.”

He pauses, mouth twitching like he’s mulling over the next words before they come out.

“I didn’t tell you before because… I didn’t know how.” He huffs a small breath, eyes dropping to our hands. “But you’re not pushing. You’re here. You’re in it. And you deserve to know.”

He lets go to pull his phone from his pocket, and his thumb moves across the screen. Then he turns it toward me. “This is Alexander.”

The breath catches in my throat.

A little boy with a mop of soft blonde hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and bright hazel eyes. His smile is all teeth, wide and messy, like he’s mid-laugh. He’s wearing a slightly crooked backpack, one strap slipping off his shoulder, and he looks exactly like Patrick.

My heart lurches.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “He’s beautiful.”

“He was… everything.” He turns his phone screen back to himself. “Smart as hell. Obsessed with dinosaurs and racing cars. Hated broccoli unless I pretended it made him grow taller.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Used to crawl into our bed in the middle of the night and steal the pillows. Every single one.”

His smile lingers, but there’s sadness behind it now. He glances over at me. “Do you want to know about my wife, too?”

I nod instantly, but have to wait a second before I say anything. I want to get the words right.

“Of course I do. I want to know the woman who helped shape the person I love.” I hesitate for a second. “The woman I share a part of your heart with.”

His brows lift slightly. “Really?”

“Please,” I whisper. “If you’re ready.”

He swipes at his screen again, scrolling for a few seconds before turning the phone back around. “This is Mara.”

The photo shows a woman with long, glossy brown hair, the same freckles as Alexander, and piercing blue eyes. She’s sitting on the edge of a low stone wall, one leg tucked under the other, hair shining in the sunlight. There’s a half empty coffee cup resting beside her, and she’s smiling softly at whoever’s standing behind the phone… Patrick.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You have a family of models.”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little surprised, like he didn’t expect to laugh right now, but couldn’t help it.

His thumb brushes the edge of the screen before he sets the phone back down on the table.

I look at him, really look at him. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For sharing them with me.”

Because now I know their names. Their faces. They’re not just ghosts in his past any more—they’re real. And he showed me that. He let me in. And that feels big.

“That’s okay.” He says on a nod, then, after a beat, he lets out a slow breath and shakes his head. “How we feeling today?”

“Still like absolute shit.” I glance toward the window, the morning sun glaring across the snowy yard. “I was thinking maybe we could go to the store. Pick something up for the nausea and the headaches?”

His brows pull slightly, concern flickering over his face.

“I also need to hit a pharmacy,” I add. “I didn’t bring my birth control. Only been off it a few days, but… I don’t like that.”

My fingers toy with the edge of my mug. “I just want to get back on top of things.”

Patrick stands up from his chair, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt moves, exposing a strip of warm, lickable skin just above his waistband.

I swallow.

“You wanna get going now?” He asks.

“Now?”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not? Sooner the better, right?”

He steps over to the side table, grabs a folded pile of clothes and presses them into my hands. “Here. I washed your stuff yesterday.”

“Oh… thanks,” I say, smiling up at him.

“Go,” he murmurs as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “I’ll get the car warmed up.”

The houses are smaller out here. Older. Squat little things with sloped roofs heavy with snow. Smoke curls from a few chimneys, rising lazily into the cold. The sidewalks haven’t been touched—no footprints, nothing—like nobody’s stepped outside in days.

We pass a school. Old brick, narrow windows, the playground swings frozen still, chains stiff with ice.

Further down, there’s a row of stores, the kind you only get in tiny towns, and I don’t recognise a single one.

“Where are we?” I ask.

Patrick’s hand flexes on the wheel, fingers drumming lightly in time with the music. “Harrowfield.”

Harrowfield?

The name doesn’t click. It just sits there, tugging at something at the back of my mind. Like I should know it, but can’t quite place it.

Harrowfield… Harrowfield…

And then it hits me.

Oh shit.

I’ve been here before.

Just once. A couple years back. Me, Elliot, and Gordon drove through on the way to a talk about updated embalming standards. We didn’t stop, just passed through.

But…

“Patrick. That’s over an hour away from where I live?”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs.

I stare at him. “Wait. What? You’ve been driving that far this whole time?”

He doesn’t glance over. Just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel. “It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal?

I stare at him, waiting for an explanation—something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sit like cold lead in my stomach.

But he just keeps driving, face smooth and unreadable like this is normal.

My stomach churns.

How is he always at my place so easily?

I think back to all those mornings he showed up with coffee, all those afternoons he just happened to be passing through. Like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t driving over an hour one way just to see me.

Why?

And why aren’t we stopping at any of the stores along these streets?

“Patrick, there’s a pharmacy right there.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I prefer the stores in the next town over.”

Right.

I stare out the window for the next twenty minutes, watching snow slide past the glass, trying to wrap my head around it.

Is he really that committed to me? That he’d travel back and forth so often, just to be around me, just to see me?

The few times I asked where he lived, he’d just shrug and say, ‘ a little out of town.’

And I never pushed. Never thought to question it. I figured it was easier for him to come to me—more convenient, seeing as he was in the area anyway and my house was right there. With a bed, a shower, coffee, me .

It made sense. Or maybe I just wanted it to.

My chest tightens. “Come on, why didn’t you ever tell me you lived so far away?”

His fingers tighten on the wheel just slightly. “Because it didn’t matter.”

“It kind of does, Patrick. You’ve been driving all that way, every day?”

He finally glances at me, just for a second. “Levana, baby. For one, I’d do literally anything to spend time with you. Two, The memorial garden’s there. Okay?”

My stomach drops.

Oh.

Of course.

I stare back out the window, guilt curling low in my belly. God, why do I have to question everything? Why do I always push?

He has good intentions. He loves me.

Of course he’d drive that far. Of course he’d make that kind of effort.

And it’s not just for my self-absorbed ass either. It’s for his son too. Somewhere he can go to feel closer to him.

I swallow hard, pressing my palm to my thigh like it might ground me.

I swear, Elliot skewed my whole perception of him.

Fuck, I’m an idiot. He’s trying so hard.

Maybe I should try a little harder too.

“We’re here.” He says as we pull into a parking lot.

The wind bites at my face the second I step outside. The parking lot’s a mess of slush and fresh snow, but Patrick doesn’t seem to notice. His fingers thread tightly through mine, and when I stumble a little on a patch of ice, he snakes his arm around my waist. “Careful.”

When we’ve finished up at the pharmacy, he jogs back to the car, tosses our separate bags into the backseat and returns just as quickly, tugging me toward the grocery store like we’re on some kind of mission.

He snags a cart, and we head inside. The overhead lights buzz and flicker, and it smells like floor cleaner and onions, and that weird metallic scent from the freezer aisle.

He pushes the cart with one hand, the other drifting across my back like he can’t help it, like not touching me would physically hurt.

“What’s your soup-to-toast ratio?” he asks as we pass the canned goods.

I snort. “My what?”

“Soup-to-toast ratio,” he says, grabbing a can of tomato soup and dropping it into the cart like it proves his point. “You’re sick, Lev. You’re gonna be living off this stuff. So how many slices of toast do you need to handle one bowl?”

“Why toast?” I ask. “Why not just… bread?”

“You’re my house guest. You’ll eat toast with your soup. How many slices?”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Two? Three, maybe.”

He smiles, then chucks two loaves into the cart. Then he spends the next twenty minutes pulling things off the shelves, holding them up like he’s testing me.

“You like these, right?” he says, tossing a box of crackers into the cart.

“What about this?” He holds up a bag of popcorn, eyebrow raised.

Half the time I don’t even have to say anything. It’s like he’s memorised my habits without me realising.

He pauses in front of the drinks aisle, grabs a bottle of ginger ale, and sets it carefully in the cart.

“Might help with the nausea,” he says, voice lower now. “And the dizziness. Just in case.”

That now familiar, warm, heavy feeling spreads under my ribs.

I grab a bar of chocolate from the shelf and he grins, before dropping another into the cart.

I huff out a laugh. “I don’t need two.”

“Yes, you do.” He grins wider. “I’m looking after you, remember?”

It’s the same with the chips—he grabs my favourite flavour before I can, tossing the bag into the growing pile like it’s already been decided.

I glance at the overflowing stack and laugh under my breath. “Why are we getting so much?”

“The snow,” he says simply. “Just in case we get stuck in for a few days.”

He leans over a plants a kiss to the top of my head. “Plus, I don’t want my girl going without anything. Not if I can help it.”

I reach for a jar of coffee, but before I can grab it, Patrick’s hand closes gently over my wrist.

“No,” he says softly. “Not right now.”

I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re already feeling sick,” he says, squeezing my wrist lightly. “Caffeine’s just gonna make it worse.”

For a second, I’m about to protest. But he’s right. My stomach’s far from settled, and it probably isn’t helping my case.

“Yeah… okay,” I mumble, letting my hand drop back to my side.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple before he reaches for some herbal tea instead.

“You’re so sweet,” I say, barely above a whisper.

He smiles, and then he’s kissing me. Right there in the middle of the aisle, hand sliding up to cradle the back of my neck like he wants to pull me all the way into him.

Holy shit.

What in the domesticated goodness is this? I love him, we’ve spent so much time together, he’s slept in my bed, I’m sleeping in his. But this? Kissing me in the grocery store and buying me a cart full of snacks? Just… holy shit.