Page 3

Chapter three

Levana

My skin’s clammy, and my brain’s throbbing like it’s trying to hammer its way out of my skull.

Everything aches.

Especially between my legs—raw and sore in that well fucked, ‘maybe-a-little-bit-ruined’ kind of way.

I groan into the pillow.

I’m going to be sick.

I shift beneath the sheets, ready to make a beeline for the bathroom when I catch the heavy arm draped over my waist.

Oh my fucking god.

I turn my head slowly. Patrick’s there, sprawled out on his side, face slack with sleep. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in lazy tufts, and his lips are parted slightly as his breath rises and falls in steady waves.

My eyes flick down to his hand—the one curled loosely against my stomach.

The wedding band on his finger glints in the faint morning light.

Oh god. No.

I can’t do this. I need to move. Now.

Peeling back the sheet, I carefully slide my legs toward the edge of the bed. He stirs a little, palm dragging slowly across my skin, and my breath catches hard in my throat.

Please don’t wake up. Please, please, please…

I hold still, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen until he stills. Then I move again, easing his arm off me gently and slipping out of bed.

I tug on the first clothes I can find and quietly slip downstairs.

As I flick on the coffee machine, my eyes catch on his glasses, still on the counter where he tossed them last night. Nope. I can’t look at them right now.

So I stare at the wall until the machine’s done, letting the low gurgle of it fill the silence. When it clicks off, I grab my mug and head for the door, but not before catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.

My auburn hair’s a mess, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, lips still kiss-bruised. One of my earrings is missing, and there’s a faint line of dried drool clinging to the corner of my mouth. I wipe at it, squish my cheeks between my hands, and groan quietly.

“Jesus,” I mutter at my reflection. “Get your shit together.”

Then I pull on my boots, throw on my coat, and bolt outside.

The air’s crisp and sharp, and dew clings to the grass and piles of fallen leaves. The sky’s a washed-out grey that makes it almost impossible to tell what time it actually is.

I sink into the little chair tucked against the side of the house, and the cold metal seeps through my pants and bites right into my ass cheeks, but I don’t care. I just need to breathe.

So I do the logical thing, and pull out a cigarette.

I cup my hand around the flame from the lighter and take a long drag, letting the smoke burn down my trachea. It doesn’t help the nausea, just makes everything feel thicker, but I smoke it anyway.

I need to calm the fuck down.

It’s not like I’m a stranger to sex—obviously. But this feels different .

I fucked a widower.

There’s nothing wrong with that, inherently. People move on. People grieve. People cope.

But for one, he’s still wearing the damn ring. And now it’s got traces of me beneath it—sweat, skin, the slick warmth of where his fingers had been inside me last night.

For two, there’s an extremely high chance I embalmed his son, probably even helped bring in his casket, arranged his flowers, set the viewing lights just right. And on top of that, what if I did the exact same for his wife? What if I stitched shut the gums her wedding vows once passed through, smoothed her hair, closed the eyes that had looked at him with love?

Fuck.

It isn’t illegal to have sex with the family member of someone you’ve given care to. I know that. There’s no actual law against it. No rulebook that says ‘don’t bang the bereaved’.

But it has to be ethically wrong, doesn’t it? If not ethically, then morally? There has to be some unspoken line here that I’ve just leapt right over.

We’re both adults. We’re both capable of making our own decisions. We knew exactly what we were doing.

But still…. Shit. This feels wrong. So fucking wrong.

A thin wisp of smoke rises into the air as I stab the cigarette out in the ashtray and head back inside. I shrug off my coat and kick my boots off by the door, and when I look up, my skeleton damn near ejects itself from my skin.

Patrick’s standing there by the sink, bare-chested, a glass of water in his hand, wire glasses resting back on the bridge of his nose, skin holding the faintest flush of pink.

“Good morning,” he says, voice low and gravelly, with a smile on his face as his eyes flick down my body. “You look good in that.”

What?

I frown, then glance down and realise I’m wearing his sweater. A suffocating heat washes over my skin, but I try to shake it off. I clear my throat and sidestep him, heading straight for the coffee machine for a second fix of caffeine.

“Want me to grab some mugs?” He asks, like this is some casual easy morning.

“I’ve got it,” I say quickly, not turning around.

Glass scrapes against the counter as he sets his water down, and then he’s close, hand grazing against my arm, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

I don’t know why it feels worse than everything else, but somehow it does. Something about the tenderness of it, the easy affection… it makes my nerves and tendons wind tight, like I’m about to snap.

My muscles lock up, and he feels it.

He all but jumps back, hands raised like he’s touched a flame. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Patrick…” I hesitate, wrapping my fingers tight around the counter’s edge, focusing on the steady drip of the coffee. “You’re a really nice guy. I don’t mean to be an asshole—“

“I’m sorry,” he cuts in gently. “If I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to. I just—I don’t know… I get it, Levana.”

Sharp, ugly guilt blooms in my chest.

From what I know, he really is nice. Even if it’s only been a few hours of real conversation and one night tangled in sweat, and heat, and too much need. He’s been nothing but sweet.

“Listen, you didn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m the one who invited you into my home. I just don’t want…” I say, angling myself toward him. “Listen. I really do think you’re a nice guy. You seem lovely.”

I cringe as soon as I say it. Lovely . God, what a stupid thing to say. Like I’m talking about some neighbour who waters your plants for you when you’re away.

But he smiles anyway. “Thanks.”

I catch another glimpse of his wedding band. It’s dull, the edges slightly scuffed, like it’s been worn for years. I wonder how long they were married. I wonder how long it’s been since she died.

No.

I take a deep breath and look at him properly.

It’s not just the way his glasses sit, or the plumpness of his lips, or how his bare chest is scattered with faint crescent moon marks from my nails—proof of what we did, of how badly we both needed each other.

It’s the look on his face. The look in his eyes. Patient and calm, waiting for me to say my piece.

He doesn’t deserve this. Not my guilt. Not the shame I’ve dragged into this space between us.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t choose his past any more than I did. And I shouldn’t cut him off for something he had no control over, and isn’t even wrong in its own right.

So I clear my throat. “Hey. If you ever want to, I don’t know, hang out sometime?”

His head lifts, brows tugging together like he’s not sure he heard me right. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, just to hang out. Nothing, you know,” I gesture vaguely with one hand, feeling like an idiot.

“I get it,” he says quietly. “Just as friends?”

“Yeah,” I say, relieved that I don’t have to stumble over my words any more than I already have done. “Exactly.”

“I’d love that,” he says, and it’s so warm and sincere it makes my stomach knot even more.

“My phone’s upstairs,” I murmur, then pause as my eyes land on it lying face down near the fridge. “Wait, no. It’s here.”

I grab it and hand it to him. “Go on. Put your number in.”

He takes it without hesitation, taps his number in and passes it back, name already saved.

“I’ll text you,” I say, nodding. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Looking forward to it.” He nods back, then takes a small step away, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh… get dressed and head out.”

The vulnerability in it makes something annoyingly soft flutter in my chest.

“Oh, wait,” I blurt, grabbing the hem of his sweater.

He glances down at it, then back up at me, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head. “Keep hold of it. Looks better on you anyway.”