Page 7

Chapter seven

Patrick

Her hair’s like auburn silk beneath my fingers. I run my hand through it again, slow and gentle, barely skimming her scalp. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake, just shifts her cheek against my chest with an almost silent sigh.

She’s so beautiful like this. Peaceful. Safe.

No snarky remarks, no trying to wind me up to see if I’ll bite, no scoffs or eye rolls.

I trail my fingers down her temple, following the soft curve of her cheekbone. The faint constellation of freckles dusting her skin catches in the low light—tiny clusters like stars mapped out across her face. I’ve counted them before, in my head. Watched the way they shift and fade when she laughs, how they pale in winter, how they deepen in summer.

From the first day I saw her, sixteen months ago, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

I knew she was meant to be in my life. But having her in it took a lot longer than I’d thought.

I’d tried before—at cafés, grocery stores, the park, the bank, even the library where I’d planned to ask her something simple—if she’d recommend a book or whatever. But I’d just stood there, frozen like a jackass, heart thudding in my throat, waiting for her to notice me.

She never did.

Always too busy in her own little world—walking down the street with her headphones in, lost in thought, out for lunch with that prick Elliot, or tucked in the corner of some café scrolling on her phone and sipping at some overly complicated coffee.

I used to watch her from a few tables away, pretending to read while I tried to figure out what she was thinking about.

‘What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?’

I spent months talking myself up to it, rehearsing words in my head, testing out how my voice might sound if I said them just right.

And still, I couldn’t do it without locking up.

So I built up the courage to visit her at work. Somewhere quieter, where I could breathe and panic internally without a crowd. And the moment I saw her in the memorial garden, my heart fucking exploded.

She was sitting on the bench, hunched forward, tendrils of hair blowing in the breeze, cigarette smoke curling up into the cool air. I stood there for what felt like hours, just watching her, barely breathing, before I’d decided to approach her.

My carefully rehearsed words vanished into nothingness. All I knew was that I was so fucking close to her, I was absolutely about to pass out. But I’d pushed through my nerves, sat next to her, and forced out a question, just to get her talking.

But she didn’t even fucking recognise me.

She didn’t hesitate, or frown like she was trying to place me. Just smiled politely and answered me, like I was some stranger she’d never seen before.

Except… she had seen me before. She’d spoken to me before.

I remember it perfectly. I’d been standing by the door after the service, stiff in my suit, hands clenched so tightly together they ached.

I hadn’t known what to do, didn’t even know where to look. And then she was there— Levana —standing beside me, looking up at me with those sharp, jade-green eyes, arms folded across her chest.

I already knew who she was. I’d chosen this funeral home specifically, because I’d heard their embalmer was unbelievably good when it came to infant and child care.

But up close… she was beautiful. Thick auburn waves tucked behind her ears, a crisp black shirt pressed smooth, with a small funeral home pin glinting on her collar. She didn’t fawn or stammer like everyone else did.She didn’t look at me like I was broken. She just… spoke to me. Straightforward, honest, and real.

“I know this part sucks,” she’d said. “But you’ll get through it. Even when it feels like you won’t. Even when you’re so tired you can’t see straight. Just… keep moving. One step at a time. It doesn’t feel like progress, but it is. I promise.”

I remember just blinking at her, tears blurring my vision.

“You’re not as alone as you think either, okay? If you need anything,” she’d added. “Just ask Gordon, he’ll help you out.”

And then she was gone. Walking back into the main section of the funeral home, head bowed. Like she hadn’t just given me words that cracked something open inside me—something raw and festering that had been choking me for weeks— months . For a second, just a second, that tight, suffocating grief had eased. I’d felt… seen. Like I wasn’t just some pitiful man drowning in sorrow.

I stood there, staring after her, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. I wanted to follow her. I wanted to grab her hand, thank her, beg her not to disappear into the crowd of mourners.

But I didn’t. I just watched her go, memorising the way her hair swayed against her back, the shape of her shoulders under her black blouse.

Sixteen months. Sixteen fucking months since she’d said those words to me at my own son’s funeral.

And she’d looked me dead in the eye in that garden and smiled like I was nobody. Like I was some random fucking guy making conversation. Like I hadn’t stood in front of her that day with my whole life torn to pieces.

“My son,” I’d told her when she asked me the same question I’d just asked her.

I’d watched her face, waiting for something to click—for her eyes to widen with recognition, for her posture to shift— anything.

But, nope. Just a small nod. “ That’s hard. I’m sorry.”

“It is.” I’d said, biting down the frustration.

She’d asked me his age but all I could think was REMEMBER HIM, REMEMBER HIM, REMEMBER ME.

Her mouth shifts slightly, the faintest twitch of a smile in her sleep.

I could wake her up right now. Shake her until she sees me properly—until she really knows who I am.

It breaks my heart that she doesn’t recognise me. But she’s busy. That’s all it is.

I’ve come to learn that she works like crazy. She’s up to her elbows in death every day—dressing bodies, stitching them closed, patching faces back together so families can convince themselves they’re saying goodbye to something whole.

She sees so many people. Week after week, face after face. So many mothers crying over their sons, so many fathers grieving their daughters, couples burying each other, whole families burning to ash.

How could she remember me? I was just another face in the blur. Just another grieving man standing at the back of the room, trying to keep from breaking down in front of everyone.

She’s not heartless. She’s just tired. Too exhausted.

I force a breath through my nose and wipe my palm down the front of my shirt like I can press the anger out of me.

“It’s not your fault, baby,” I murmur. “I know that. You’ve just had too much on your mind. Too many things to think about. But that’s okay… I get it. You know me now. That’s all that matters.”

I press my thumb beneath her jaw, resting it lightly against her pulse. Her heart thumps slow, steady, fragile beneath her skin.

I still can’t believe how quickly she let me into her life at first.

That night—the night I followed her to the bar and she let me into her bed—my whole world shifted.

All that time following her, all that time I’d spent getting to know her from a distance, she’d invited me into her life with open arms. I felt like I could breathe again. Like I wasn’t just existing. Like I was alive.

I’d thought ‘This is it, this is the moment everything turns around.’

But then afterward… I’d woken up alone.

The room was cold. Her side of the bed empty, the sheets still twisted from where we’d tangled ourselves in them. The scent of her lingered on the pillow. Warm and soft, something faintly sweet but earthy, like rain on dry leaves, like smoke curling from a spent match. And beneath it, just subtly, the sharp bite of chemicals from her job—something sterile and clean, that just fit her. It was fucking delicious, and it hit me, hard.

My eyes had drifted over her room. The messy pile of clothes on the chair, the hairbrush on her dresser, the empty glass by the bed. All her things, all her space, and I was in it. I belonged there.

I needed to find her. Needed to kiss her. Needed to hold her close.

I’d stumbled downstairs to pour a glass of water, and then, she’d walked in. Messy hair, eyes still heavy with sleep, and my sweater hanging loose off her frame, sleeves pulled down past her knuckles.

And I swear to god, I’d melted.

I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop thinking how right it looked, her in my clothes, moving through her own kitchen like she didn’t even realise how much she’d taken me with her. Like she’d claimed something.

I’d offered to grab mugs so we could make coffee together, wrap ourselves up in blankets, spend the morning sharing lazy kisses and softer touches before I fucked her again—slow this time, thanking her for every damn second she was letting me into her life.

But when I’d reached for her and pressed a kiss to her temple, she’d stiffened, froze up. My heart shattered on the spot, splintering into a thousand sharp little shards.

I stepped back, tried to smile like it was nothing, like I wasn’t choking in that cold, sick feeling clawing its way up my throat.

I told her I understood. But I didn’t understand.

Was I too rough? Too fast? Did I scare her?

I quickly realised she must’ve just been scared of her own feelings, because she decided she wanted to hang out—just as friends, sure—but that didn’t matter. That was enough. Enough to slip back in. Enough to show her how good we could be together. Enough for her to realise she needed me as much as I needed her.

I couldn’t believe it. I almost laughed out loud from excitement.

These weeks have been bliss. Taking her on dates most days, texting her constantly.

She’s a magnet. But not the kind that snaps hard and fast, clamping down so tight you can’t pry it loose. No. She’s slower than that, softer. Like gravity drawing me in, steady and constant, impossible to resist.

I can’t get enough of her.

I’ve fallen for Levana Marie Foster. Hard and irrevocably.

I know what people would say. I’m obsessed. That I’ve lost perspective. That I’ve let myself get swept too far under.

But they don’t know her like I do.

They don’t know how soft her voice gets when she’s half-asleep at lunch time. They don’t know the warmth of her skin under theirs. They don’t know that underneath the sharp words and guarded smiles, she’s the kindest person I’ve ever met.

They don’t know how badly I need her. How I ache for her. How my world bends and shifts every time she walks into a room.

Shit, they don’t know how badly she needs me .

And after weeks of settling myself into the rhythm of her life.

It finally worked.

Maybe not for the right reason. She was upset, rattled from work. I’d been waiting in the break room, lunch in hand, ready to make her smile, make her bite her lip, blush.

But she’d come bursting in like she was on fire—shaking, panicking, wild-eyed.

And Elliot. That little rat bastard. He got to her first. He calmed her down.I really don’t like him. Telling me to stay away from her. Who does he think he is?

It should’ve been me. It should always be me.

But in the grand scheme of things, I guess it doesn’t matter how it happened, because she took me to her bed. Not him.

She took me to her bed, and told me she liked me.

And I just about died on the spot when she let me kiss her.

Then, she fell asleep in my arms, tucked in tight against my body like she knew she belonged there. And now, she’s here.

Warm and soft and mine .

I trail my hand down her arm, feeling the heat of her skin beneath my palm. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stir.

She has no idea, but one day, she’ll wake up and realise it’s exactly what we both need, and she was brought to me for a reason.

That none of this is just for fleeting kisses and stolen moments between us. That she has a purpose. That this was meant to be.

She’ll see.

She’s going to help me be okay.

She’s going to fix everything .