Page 5

Chapter five

Levana

The duvet’s heavy and warm, tangled loosely around my legs. One foot sticks out from the mess, just enough to cool off without ruining the comfort.

It’s grey outside, the light dull and hazy through the thin gap in the curtains. The kind of morning where the sky looks thick and low, like it might start spitting rain at any second. Perfect.

My room’s small, but I love it. Muted sage green walls, that Gordon agreed to let me paint. A tiny bookcase in the corner, shelves half-filled with actual books and half with random crap I never found a proper place for—candles that never get lit, a chipped mug I can’t part with, and a box filled with tangled necklaces. Clothes are draped on every surface, mismatched notebooks are piled haphazardly in the corner, and on the windowsill, empty mugs and glasses gather like forgotten soldiers, practically screaming at me that I should get the fuck up and clean something.

But I stretch out instead, sighing into the warmth.

That’s not happening today.

No chores. No alarms. No calls. No one waiting for me.

I sip my coffee and shift deeper into the pillows. My phone’s balanced against my thigh, screen glowing bright as I scroll mindlessly. Dumb videos. Headlines I’ll forget by noon. A recipe I’ll swear I’m going to try, knowing full well I’ll never bother. Just static to fill the space with something lazy and easy.

But then my phone vibrates.

“Oh, for the love of god,” I mumble.

Still up for today?

Oh, fuck.Patrick.

I stare at the screen, brain scrambling. I’d told him we could do something this weekend, but then my head got shoved so far up my own ass I’d completely fucking forgot.

Hey… I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I’m up for anything today. Not feeling too great. Rain check?

A minute later, my phone buzzes again.

What’s happened?

I’m stuck for a minute, wondering how to reply.

Had a really rough few days at work.

It’s not necessarily a lie. It’s technically where I’d seen my mom. And it really had fucked me over, big time. Left me in this state of uncomfortable limbo that I desperately need to bed-rot myself out of.

I lock my phone and set it face-down on the nightstand, then drag the duvet up to my chin, and try to forget about everything outside this room.

But it buzzes again.

Rough how?

Just… exhausting. I think I need a day to hide in bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.

Rude.

I’m serious! Come on, let me take you out. Just for a bit. Nothing wild.

I really don’t think I’m up for it.

I’ll take you somewhere easy. No pressure.

I dunno…

I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll even let you pick the playlist in the car, no complaints from me, no matter how terrible your taste is.

You’re really selling this.

That’s the plan. Seriously, Levana. Fresh air. Something other than funeral home walls and your bed. It’ll help.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. It’s stupid how much I like him. How much I’ve started to look forward to his texts, his jokes, the easiness in how he makes me feel like myself without even trying. And his smile— god, that smile —warm and crooked in a way that makes my chest ache in the best way.

Fine. But if you’re annoying, I’m going straight home.

Deal. I’ll be on my best behaviour.

Okay. Maybe not my best behaviour.

I roll my eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at my mouth.

Pick me up in an hour.

Can’t wait.

I’m cramming pizza into my face like I haven’t eaten in a week. Grease slicks my fingers, cheese stretching from my mouth in stubborn strings. I don’t care. It’s hot, salty, and exactly what I need.

Patrick’s just as bad—chewing with his elbow on the table, looking like he’s two minutes away from unhinging his jaw and swallowing his slice whole.

“You know,” he says between mouthfuls. “You’re a hell of a lot quieter when there’s food involved. Noted.”

I snort, barely bothering to swallow before I answer. “It’s called strategic energy conservation.”

“Strategic?” He gapes at me. “You’ve eaten half the pizza and I’m fighting for my life over here.”

“Survival of the fittest,” I mutter, grabbing another slice.

The place is roasting hot, the air thick with the smell of melted cheese and fryer grease. The windows are fogged up from the cold outside, faint outlines of smiley faces traced in the condensation. Feels like one of those places that hasn’t changed since the ‘90s—scuffed vinyl booths, scratched plastic tables, and a few flickering neon signs buzzing above the counter.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin and leaning back in the booth. “We’ve got a whole day ahead of us.”

I frown. “We have?”

“Yep,” he grins.

“Patrick…” I sigh, setting my crust down on a crumpled napkin. “I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, waving a hand. “You were gonna hide in bed and rot. But you’re gonna be so glad you didn’t.” He leans in a little, giving me an exaggerated wink. “I’ve got plans.”

I narrow my eyes. “That sounds suspicious as hell.”

“You’ll love it,” he insists. “Trust me.”

After half an hour of me scarfing down the rest of the pizza, Patrick sets his drink down with a decisive thud. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask, but he’s already standing, shrugging on his coat.

“You’ll see.”

I follow him outside, the cold midday air biting against my face. Patrick’s walking slightly ahead, hands stuffed in his pockets ad he leads the way.

I’m still wondering where the hell we’re going when I make out a noise, faint at first, then louder as we round the corner. The sharp clang of coins hitting metal trays, the shriek of some overexcited kid, that unmistakable electronic bleeping that can only mean one thing.

“Oh no,” I mutter.

“Oh yes,” he grins.

The arcade’s loud. All flashing lights and tinny music, a mash of clattering coins and kids shouting at each other across sticky carpets. It smells faintly of stale popcorn and cheap plastic, and reminds me of sweaty summers in my childhood.

Patrick’s already digging into his pocket for coins, grinning like an idiot. “Okay,” he says, “I’m warning you now—I’m a beast at skee-ball.”

“Oh, are you?” I smirk, shrugging off my coat. “Big talk.”

“Big truth,” he winks, feeding a coin into the machine. “I’m about to embarrass you.”

I scoff. “You’re about to try .”

And I’m right. He sucks.

His first ball bounces off the rim and skitters off into the gutter. His second barely makes it halfway up the ramp before it veers off course. I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but by the time his third ball clatters into the ‘ten-point’ slot, I can’t help myself.

“ Beast at skee-ball, huh?” I snort.

“Okay,” he mutters, shoving his glasses up his nose. “Clearly, I’m warming up.”

“Sure,” I grin, stepping up to the machine beside his. “Watch and learn.”

I feed my coin in, line up my shot, and roll.

Fifty points.

He gapes at me like I’ve just cured the world’s rarest disease. “Are you serious?”

I shrug. “Beginner’s luck.”

But it’s not. Shot after shot, I wipe the floor with him. I’m not even trying that hard, the balls just keep rolling exactly where I want them. Patrick’s getting worse by the minute, cursing under his breath every time his ball takes a wild detour into the gutter.

“Okay,” he says finally, dragging his hand across his jaw. “I’m calling sabotage.”

“ Sabotage ?” I laugh. “I didn’t even touch you!”

“Yeah, but you’re… I dunno… messing with the vibe,” he mutters, tossing his last ball, only for it to land in the ten-point slot again. “Unbelievable.”

I’m still laughing as I tug the tickets from the machine, shoving them into his hand. “Here. Go get yourself a plastic spider ring or something.”

He just grins as he pockets them.

We drift from machine to machine after that, laughing too hard at a busted driving game, shouting at the air hockey table like idiots. Patrick’s all dumb bravado and exaggerated war cries, and I’m just… happy . Really, genuinely happy—like something tight in my chest has finally let go after seeing my mom.

After more than a few rounds of wins and losses, he drags me to one of those impossible claw machines that robs you blind, and insists he’s ‘ got this.’

“You’re about to waste, like, four bucks,” I warn him.

“Relax,” he grins, “I’m a professional .”

“You’re a professional loser,” I snort, raising my brow at him. “You’ve been proving that all night.”

But somehow— somehow —he wins. The claw snags a bright pink dinosaur with googly eyes and lumpy little legs, and when he turns to me, holding it out proudly, I can’t stop laughing.

“Take it,” he says, wiggling it in my face.

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to.”

“No way.”

But he’s relentless—dangling it in front of me until I finally snatch it from his hand, scowling like I hate it. But I don’t. Not really. It’s ugly as hell, but weirdly sweet.

“You’re carrying that everywhere now,” he says smugly. “I’ll be watching.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m beaming again like a moron.

The heater makes a low rattling sound like it’s trying to clear its throat and some old, soft, scratchy music crackles from the stereo.

The car suits him completely. All warm tones and worn textures. The seats are faded tan, cracked at the corners. The dash is scuffed, with little dents and nicks, and there’s an old pine air freshener hanging off the rear view mirror.

The little googly eyes of the stuffed toy bounce with every bump in the road, and I’m toying with it without really thinking, dragging my thumb along its uneven little arms.

Patrick wasn’t lying about watching me. Every few minutes, he glances over at it, then chuckles under his breath.

“You good over there?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m great,” he says, grinning. “Just enjoying the sight of you and your new emotional support dinosaur.”

“Please,” I scoff. “I’m not attached to it.”

“You’re literally stroking its face.”

I drop it in my lap like it’s burned me, and I let a few minutes pass before I start up.

Two can play at the annoying asshole game.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Now?”

Patrick exhales through his nose, still smiling. “No.”

I stare out the window for a second. “What about now?”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Heaven help me.”

It’s kind of endearing, honestly. Like there’s nothing I could say or do that would rattle him. No sharp sighs, no muttered ‘ For fuck’s sake, Levana. Give it a rest.’ Just this calm, easy patience that somehow makes me want to push him more. Like I could crank up the irritation, pick and prod and needle at him until I was unbearable, and he’d still just laugh under his breath and shake his head like I’m some annoying but harmless thing.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as he pulls off the road, and I snap out of my thoughts. The lake stretches out in front of us, the sky bruising at the edges as the light starts to dip.

I zip my coat up higher as I step out of the car, boots scuffing against the stones. It’s not freezing, but it’s still cold enough to creep in through my sleeves and cling to my skin.

Patrick’s already at the edge of the water, hands shoved in his pockets.

The air smells damp and clean, like wet stone and distant pine, and the lake’s so still it’s like glass, the sky and trees stretched out in perfect reflection.

He bends down and grabs a flat stone from the shoreline. He weighs it in his hand for a second, then flicks his wrist. The stone skips fast and low, barely rippling the surface before it’s gone.

“Not bad,” I admit.

“Not bad?” He grabs another. “That was art.”

I laugh softly, crouching to find a stone of my own. The one I pick is too thick, too heavy, and it plops into the water with a useless splash.

“Wow,” he grins. “Incredible technique.”

“Shut up, skee-ball.” I reach for another.

For a while, we just throw stones. Every time he skips one, I swear his stupid little face gets smugger.

“I like it here,” he says eventually. “I come here sometimes. When I need to clear my head.”

I glance over at him.

“Yeah?” I say, tossing another stone. “Why here?”

Patrick shrugs, shoulders rising beneath his coat.

“Dunno. It’s just… quiet. Feels like I can actually breathe here, you know?” He blows out a breath. “Makes me feel… calm. Like everything’s a little less heavy.”

I watch him for a moment—the way he’s scuffing his shoes against the gravel as he watches the water move, the way the moonlight’s catching in his hair, turning it pale gold. He pushes his glasses up his nose a little further and lets out a sigh. The air’s gone thicker, and he looks sad—a little unsettled.

Maybe he used to come here with his son, his wife. Maybe he used to spend days here with his family, or maybe it became his safe space after they passed…

“You okay over there?” I ask softly.

He glances over, startled, like I’ve caught him off guard. But then he smiles.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Should be me asking you that, not the other way around.”

“Well,” I shrug, “you looked like you were about to throw yourself into the lake, so…”

He laughs, and the sound of it makes something loosen in my chest.

“Yeah,” he says, still smiling. “Guess I just get a little in my head sometimes.

I know the feeling. Not in the same way he does—not even close—but in my own small way, I get it. So I don’t push him to explain, just shift a little closer, bumping my shoulder against his arm.

“You know,” he says after a pause, “I’m glad you didn’t stay in bed today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He glances at me again. “I like having you around.”

“Me too,” I murmur. “I like being around you.”

He gives me a small, sweet smile, but then his eyes light up like he’s just been zapped with electricity. “Wait there.”

“What? Why?”

But he’s already jogging back to the car, breath curling in the cold air.

I blink after him.

Is he gonna fucking abandon me out here?

He swings open the door, then leans inside. Loud music crackles through the old speakers, and a voice drifts through the air, low and rich, syrupy-slow, the kind of voice that clings to you like molasses sliding off a spoon. Something your grandparents might’ve danced to once, swaying close on a faded black and white kitchen floor.

Etta James, I think?

“You’re kidding,” I mutter.

“What?” Patrick’s grinning like an idiot as he walks back toward me. “It’s a classic.”

I just huff a quiet laugh through my nose, shaking my head.

He stretches out his hand, palm up. “Come on.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he coaxes with a fake pout. “Don’t make me dance alone.”

“Patrick…”

“One song,” he says. “Just one.”

“Patrick—”

“One,” he pleads, holding up a finger like that’s the dealbreaker. “I’ll even let you lead.”

“Fine. Just one,” I say, rolling my eyes.

His face lights up like he’s just won the lottery. “Perfect.”

I sigh dramatically, but I still take his hand, letting him pull me closer.

For a second, he just hovers there, arms at my waist, fingers barely grazing my coat, like he’s not entirely sure what to do next, even though this was his idea.

“Is this okay?” he asks, less cocky now.

I nod. “This is fine.”

His shoulders drop a little, and then he’s pulling me in properly, one hand firm against the small of my back. He’s warmer than I expected, all solid and steady, like I could fall asleep right there and he wouldn’t even flinch.

It’s… nice. Too nice, honestly. The kind of nice that makes my chest feel tight, like I’m waiting for something to ruin it.

He sways us gently, like he’s giving me space to breathe. This is the first time in a long time I’ve let someone actually hold me this close in such a sweet way. I close my eyes and let my head fall onto his shoulder, blocking out everything until there’s just cold air, the shift of gravel under our feet, the music, and the lazy hush of the lake lapping at the shore.

His fingers shift, sliding slightly higher up my back, then curling in a little, squeezing me like he’s trying to melt into me.

We keep moving slowly, turning in lazy half-circles. I’m not thinking about my footing, just following his lead—until the heel of my boot catches on the uneven gravel and I stumble slightly.

“Woah.” His arm tightens instantly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my face burning. “Did that on purpose. Testing you.”

“Oh yeah? You’re real graceful like that.”

A scoff escapes me, but I don’t pull away. His hand doesn’t move from my back either, like he’s anchoring me in place.

I lift my head.

He’s watching me.

Our eyes meet, and it’s intense. Not soft or sweet or easy like before—it’s sharp now, electric, like north and south snapping together. His hazel eyes catch the moonlight. Rich and gold, ringed dark at the edges, and I can’t look away.

His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, or maybe like he’s forgotten how to.

I should say something— anything —but I can’t. I just stay there, locked in place, like if I move I’ll break whatever this is.

His eyes flick down to my mouth, just briefly, then back up again.

My brain’s going to explode. My heart’s gonna break my damn ribs.

I don’t know what to do.

I should crack a joke, step back, break the tension,something. But I just… can’t.

His eyes stay locked on mine, like he’s waiting for me to make the first move.

My chest’s too tight, my breath’s too shallow, and I can’t decide if I want to lean in or back away before I lose whatever’s left of my common sense.

His eyes flick down to my mouth again.

My thoughts won’t stop spinning. The more time we’ve spent together, the less I care about it all. The possibility that I embalmed his damn family, the wedding ring on his finger Well, it’s not that I don’t care, it’s just… stopped getting in the way.

Should I do it? Should I fucking do it?

Would it upset him? Would it ruin things? We’ve built up this whole easy, steady friendship. And what if I just… wreck it? What if this isn’t what he wants?

But then… what if it is?

Just do it. Just fucking—

I swallow hard, pulse skittering beneath my skin.

“Patrick…”

His breath hitches, and his fingers tighten.

“Levana,” he says on a breath.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“I should probably get home now.” The words spill out even though I don’t really want to say them.

His hand lingers at my waist for a second longer, just long enough for my heart to twinge, and then he steps back, letting me go.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Yeah, okay.”