Page 6

Chapter six

Levana

“You’re in the best hands today, okay?” I whisper. “I’m Levana. It’s my job to make sure that you’re super, super comfy. I’ve got you.”

I grab the softest cloth I can find and soak it in disinfectant. The last thing I want is for the fabric to drag too rough against her skin.

I start with her hands, wiping each one down, soft and careful, rubbing between her knuckles with my thumb before moving on.

Her face is impossibly small. Round little cheeks, delicate and pale. I work in slow, gentle strokes, brushing the cloth along her temples, down over the curve of her nose.

Her mouth’s slightly open, showing the soft pout of her lips. I press the cloth to them carefully, wiping along the curve of her bottom lip, then over the faint bow of the top one.

“There we go.”

I find the right spot, beneath the delicate skin of her arm, and slide the syringe needle in.

Steady. Just like always.

I take a breath and slowly press down on the plunger.

The fluid barely moves.

I watch the syringe, and stare hard at the narrow column of liquid. But the plunger grinds under my thumb, barely budging. The fluid’s just… stuck. The needle’s in place, the angle’s right, but nothing’s moving.

Come on.

I pull back just slightly, repositioning the needle—softer tissue, better flow—and try again. The syringe barely empties, a thin trickle of fluid pushing through, too slow.

“Come on,” I mutter, shifting the needle again, pressing a little harder. “Come on, baby girl…”

Still nothing.

After I withdraw the needle carefully, I press a clean cloth over the spot, holding it there with two fingers until I’m sure it won’t leak.

“It’s okay. That’s okay…” I pause, fingers still pressed against her arm, and swallow down the tightness rising in my throat. “Hmm… what are we gonna do, huh?”

I reach for the chemical compresses and start placing them carefully over her skin. Her arms first, then her tiny legs. I work slowly, pressing each one gently into place, letting the chemicals seep in and do what the needle couldn’t. My fingers move without thinking but my mind drifts.

And before I realise it, I’m singing a lullaby to her.

It’s automatic—muscle memory more than anything. The same lullaby I used to hum when Violet wouldn’t sleep. Back when I’d pace the room with her tucked against my chest, singing those exact words into her barely there hair, rocking her in time with the melody.

When I’ve finished placing them, I reach for the plastic sheeting and drape it loosely over her body. It’s supposed to keep the chemicals from evaporating too quickly, but part of me just wants her covered and warm.

Then I clean.

I wipe down the arterial tubes and syringes, lay them back in their trays, one by one, ready to go in the autoclave. I scrub the counter, wipe along the sink, and fold the soiled towels into a neat pile in the corner.

I check her dress—soft white cotton with tiny embroidered flowers, and I smooth it out carefully, running my fingers along the hem like I’m searching for loose threads.

Quiet stories escape my mouth as I continue to work.

Stupid little things, broken pieces of fairytales I only half remember.

“Once upon a time, there was a princess—No, no, wait… she wasn’t a princess yet, she was just a girl. But she was clever. Braver than anyone expected…”

I keep talking as I finish up some more tasks.

“And one day, she found a dragon… but not the scary kind. This one was old and tired, and it just wanted someone to sit with it. So she did. She sat and told the dragon all her favourite stories, and when it fell asleep, she promised she’d stay until it woke up again…”

I trail off, my fingers lingering too long on the casket’s edge as I glance back at her. Her hair clings to her scalp in dark, damp wisps. The same way Violet’s had.

I swallow hard and wipe my hands down against my apron like that’ll somehow get the ache out of my chest.

“Almost there,” I tell her as I peel the plastic back slowly. “We’re almost done, sweetheart.”

Set, smooth, and firm. No more dark bruising or uneven blotches. The chemicals have done their job.

Once her cosmetics are applied and she’s in her tiny little dress, I press my hands flat against my thighs for a second, grounding myself, then slip one arm beneath her back and the other beneath her legs.

“Hello, baby girl,” I murmur.

I carry her carefully to the tiny white casket, and lower her down slowly, easing her head to one side, before tucking her blanket around her shoulders.

I run my hand along the fabric, smoothing out invisible creases.

“You sleep well, okay?” I whisper. “Someone will be in here to check on you very soon.”

I leave the embalming room, and the second the door clicks shut behind me, I press my back to it and suck in a huge, shaky breath.

The air feels thin, too tight in my chest. I drive the heel of my hand into my sternum, trying to ease the ache there.

Get it together. Just breathe. Breathe.

“Levana, you okay?” Someone asks.

My whole body locks up.

“I’m fine,” I rasp.

“She’s fine, man,” a second voice says. “Just give her a minute. This happens.”

“Like fuck I’ll give her a minute—”

“You’ll do as you’re damn told,” the second voice snaps. “This isn’t your workplace. You don’t know shit.”

I feel hands on my arms and I look up to see Elliot with a worried crease in his brow, the faintest concerned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Lev, you’re okay. Just breathe for me, yeah?” he says. “In and out, slow as you can.”

I grip his sleeve, fingers curling tight into the fabric. My breath stutters again, but I force it out, then pull in another one, slower this time. My chest loosens, just a little.

“There you go,” Elliot says softly. “That’s it. Just keep going.”

“What the hell’s going on? Levana?”

I don’t even look up. My fingers are still twisted in Elliot’s sleeve, and I’m too busy trying to keep my breathing steady.

“Fucking hell,” Elliot says, his voice low and clipped. “It happens. It’s literally our job. Some cases are harder than others, alright? Can you just step the fuck back?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence before Elliot speaks again.

“You okay?”

I nod. The panic’s still wound around my ribs, but it’s starting to loosen.

I release my grip on Elliot’s sleeve and look up.

Worry is carved into Patrick’s face. He’s stood stiff beside the little table, hands curled tight against the edge like he’s bracing himself.

“I’m okay,” I reassure him. “I’m okay.”

Patrick doesn’t move. His eyes flick between the two of us.

“Like El said,” I add, swallowing hard. “It happens. It’s… part and parcel of working with death. Sometimes certain bodies just hit harder. But I’m fine. I just needed a minute.”

It’s true. Obviously it’s true. Sometimes, I’m fine. Sometimes, the babies look a little too much like Violet, and it gets me upset for a minute.

Patrick doesn’t look convinced at all.

“I mean it,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m good.”

“You want me to take her down to the cooler room?” Elliot asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, still catching my breath. “Yeah, please.” I pause, swallowing against the knot in my throat. “Will you put her next to Mrs. Wilkins? So she doesn’t feel alone?”

“Of course. I’ll leave you guys to it,” he says, giving my arm a quick squeeze and making a move to the hallway. “Gotta check in with Gordon about those new caskets before I take her down. He was swearing at the delivery guy earlier, so… yeah. Gotta fix that.”

The second he’s gone, Patrick steps forward.

“Oh, come here,” he says softly, and before I know what’s happening, his arms are around me, one hand spreading wide against my back, the other clasping the base of my neck.

I fold into him, and let his clove scent fill my lungs.

Then his lips press against the top of my head, and I freeze.

It’s… unexpected. I’m not used to that.

But I don’t pull away. I don’t care right now.

Because my pulse is stumbling and my heart’s kicked up a notch for a different reason now, and I like it.

“What can I do for you right now?” He asks.

I breathe out slow, closing my eyes. “I just… I wanna go home for a bit. Will you come with me?”

“Yeah,” he says straight away. “Of course I will.” He pauses. “I brought lunch. Want to eat it at yours?”

I nod , and before I know it, I’ve grabbed his hand, his fingers are laced through mine, and I’m walking him to my house.

I should let go. But I don’t. Neither does he.

Not until we get inside and I’m peeling my coat off, heading straight for my room, leaving him downstairs.

I tug on sweatpants and an old hoodie, then just sit on the edge of my bed for a minute, staring down at my hands. They’re shaky, fingers curled loose in my lap. I rub my palms together, but the nerves don’t really settle. That was… a lot. And now this… is a lot.

When I head back downstairs, Patrick’s in the kitchen, plating up food. He looks up when he sees me and gives me a warm smile, like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine.

I don’t want to eat.

I just make a beeline for him, and sink into his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes as his arms come around me. His hand rubs slow circles across my back and I close my eyes, breathing him in.

“It was a baby,” I say, my voice muffled against his chest.

He pauses. “A baby?”

I nod against him, swallowing hard. “The body. It was a baby girl.”

His whole body stiffens. “Do babies upset you?”

“Of course they do,” I say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “All bodies do. All deaths are upsetting.” I shake my head. “But the really young ones can be a little tougher.”

I feel the word rise up— Violet. The name tangles at the back of my throat, heavy and sharp. But I don’t say it. I can’t.

I’m not ready to go there. Not yet.

But still… this feels like something. Like opening a door I’ve kept bolted shut for too long.

Patrick nods slowly, like he’s deciding whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, his arms tighten, pulling me back in.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “That’s a lot.”

Somehow, he manages to get me to eat. And somehow, I’ve ended up dragging him into bed—fully clothed—and now we’re sat under my duvet, eating sandwiches like we’re at a goddamn picnic.

The iPad’s propped up on my nightstand, playing some terrible rerun I’ve seen a hundred times before, and he’s beside me. He seems a little awkward—shoulders stiff, eyes flicking to the screen like he’s trying to focus on the terrible sitcom, but isn’t really watching it. I can’t blame him.

I mildly freaked the fuck out the other week by the lake. But he hasn’t mentioned it since. Instead, it’s like he’s ramped up the friendship setting, bringing me lunch at work every day, just sitting with me like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And the weirdest part? The more accepting he is of the friendship, the more attracted to him I am, which doesn’t make any sense at all. But here I am, practically glued to his side in my bed, sneaking glances at his mouth like I’m some lovesick teenager.

I take another bite of my sandwich just to give myself something to do, but my brain’s stuck on the way his knee’s pressed against mine, the way his fingers tap idly against the duvet, close enough that I could reach out and tangle my hand in his if I wanted to. And I do want to. So I grab it. He doesn’t flinch.

I trail my fingertips along the ridges of his knuckles, the tendons running down the back of his hand and follow them lower, down toward the raised line of the flexor carpi radialis, the one that twitches faintly when he moves his thumb. His veins stand out in thin, blue-green trails—the cephalic vein winding across the back of his hand, the basilic vein curving faintly closer to his wrist.

Then his fingers tighten, closing gently around mine. He turns my hand over and starts tracing my fingers the same way I’d been tracing his.

He follows the curve of my knuckles, dragging his thumb across the bones beneath my skin. His fingers pause when they reach my ring finger, lingering there a second too long.

I look up, and he’s watching me, head tilted slightly.

I sigh, pulling my hand back just enough to curl my fingers into a loose fist.

How the fuck am I supposed to tell him this?

I glance at his stupid, handsome face, then away—my eyes landing on some dumb shadow on the wall like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

“Levana?” His voice is soft and careful.

“Look,” I say quickly, before I lose my nerve. “I need to say something, and I need you to just… shut up and let me get it out, okay? Please?”

I look back to him. His eyebrows pull together, but he nods.

“Christ,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “I know I’m too old for this shit, but… I like you, okay?” I blow out a breath and force myself to keep going. “I know I’m difficult. I know I keep pushing and pulling, and I’m sorry if I’ve messed things up. I know I’ve been a head fuck—I really don’t mean to be.”

I shake my head, eyes locking back on the same stupid patch of wall.

“I just… I really like being around you,” I say, quieter now. “You’ve been so patient with me, and honestly, my friendship with you is one of the best friendships I’ve ever had, and I’m afraid that me saying this will ruin everything.”

“Levana,” he says softly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

“No,” I cut in quickly. “Please, let me finish or I’ll just… stop, and I don’t want to.”

The words are tumbling out now, faster than I can control.

“You can walk the fuck out right now and never look back,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Or… Or you can just… forget I’ve said anything and we can move on from it and be friends again. I don’t know.”

I feel like I’ve just run up six flights of stairs. I can’t fucking breathe, and he’s just staring at me.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Levana. You fucked it up.

“Levana,” he says softly. ”You haven’t ruined anything. Not even close.”

I blink. My brow furrows. Did I mishear him?

“You mean that?” I ask on a whisper.

He gives me a warm smile. “Yeah.” Then he shrugs. “Does it make me an asshole if I say I’ve just been waiting?”

I stare at him.

“Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “It does actually. A fucking huge, monumental, massive asshole.”

His grin widens, and in a heartbeat, his hands are on me, fingers digging into my sides relentlessly.

“Oh my God—Patrick!” I squeal, squirming away.

“Monumental asshole?” he teases, still tickling me. “Monumental?”

“Yes! Yes, you’re a monumental asshole!” I’m half-laughing, half shrieking, twisting under the covers, practically choking on my own breath.

“Good,” he grins, finally stopping. “Just so we’re clear.”

I’m breathless, clutching my ribs, face flushed and aching from smiling so hard.

He’s close, hovering over me, one hand braced on the mattress, the other resting warm against my waist.

His smile fades a little, softens into something quieter. Something careful.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks on a whisper.

My breath stutters. My ribs tighten again.

I nod. Just once. Small and shaky.

His fingers slide up to my face, cupping my jaw. He’s slow about it, like he’s giving me time to back out.

But I’m not going to.

I watch his eyes flick to my mouth, watch the faint hitch of his breath, watch the way he leans in.

And then he kisses me.

Soft. Warm. Steady.

His lips move against mine like he’s savouring every second. I lean into it, tilting my head to let him in, his tongue traces the seam of my lips, and his fingers flex just a little tighter at my jaw.

Then, he leans in harder, his other hand sliding up under my shirt, dragging over my ribs before flattening against my stomach. His thumb sweeps in a slow circle, tracing over my skin as his mouth keeps moving against mine, deep and slow.

My hands slide up his arms, fingers curling over the hard lines of his biceps, and his fingers flex again against my stomach, firmer this time, holding me to the mattress.

I sigh against his mouth and he swallows it down with a groan, like he’s been starving for it.

But it’s not enough—not for either of us. The kiss turns desperate, heated, hungry. His mouth crushes against mine, his tongue sliding deeper, his teeth grazing my bottom lip like he’s chasing the sounds I can’t quite hold back.

My hands travel to his shoulders, fingers digging in hard as I pull him closer. I’m clinging to him now, dragging him down against me, feeling the heat of his body press firm and solid into mine.

His hand stays firm on my stomach, but his knee shifts, sliding up between my thighs. I can’t help it, my hips twitch, rolling against him, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he breathes against my lips. “That’s it.”

His knee presses higher, nudging against me just right, and I can feel myself getting wetter.

Shit, I want to fuck him. I want to feel him again like I did that night. I want to rip off my underwear right now, straddle him and ride him until I’m seeing stars.

Oh god…

I freeze, and his lips slow, pulling back.

“What?” His voice is low and rough, tight with want. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” I stammer, blinking up at him, my heart racing. “Just, not yet.”

His gaze sharpens, flicking down to where my thighs are still pressed tight around his leg. For a second, he doesn’t do anything, just stares like he’s trying to read my mind.

“Not yet…” he repeats quietly, more to himself than me. His hand finally eases off my stomach, but he doesn’t pull away—just shifts his palm to my side, fingers curving gently around my waist.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay… not yet.”

Fuck. I want him. Badly.

But no. Not yet.

I want to make sure he’s sure.

I want to make sure I’m sure. Today’s been emotional. I don’t want my body fuelling its wants off the adrenaline of upset.

Am I being stupid? I don’t know. But he seems okay with it.

I don’t want to fuck this up, again, for either of us.

I push lightly at his shoulders, shifting him off me, and settle down beside him instead. My head finds his chest, his heartbeat thudding steadily beneath my ear.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slides to my knee, fingers gripping firm around it before hiking my leg over his hips. He squeezes me close, then dips his head and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Yeah. This is perfect.”