Chapter 85

LEVI

I took the elevator back down to the lobby, each ding of the descending floors echoing louder in my skull than it should’ve. My thoughts were a tangled mess—tight knots I couldn’t unravel. When the doors finally slid open, the night met me like an old, indifferent lover. Cool. Quiet. Untouched.
Outside, the city pulsed with life, but I barely felt part of it. I reached my car and turned to Isaac—my ever-loyal driver, the only one I trusted behind the wheel besides myself.
“Isaac, get a cab. I want to drive,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. I didn’t have the patience for small talk, not tonight.
Isaac, tall and stoic as ever, gave a small nod. The soft glow from the streetlight etched his sharp features in gold and shadow. His eyes lingered on me for a second, searching, maybe questioning, but he didn’t speak. Whatever he thought, he swallowed it down and quietly stepped out of the car to hail a cab.
I slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. The leather felt warm under my fingers, but it might as well have been ice. The air inside the car was stifling, thick with something I couldn’t name—anger, maybe. Or regret. Or something worse.
I inhaled deeply, jaw clenched, and turned the key. The engine came to life with a low rumble, but it didn’t settle me. If anything, it only amplified the chaos in my chest.
The city’s soundtrack bled through the windows—the honking of impatient drivers, the distant hum of conversation, the rhythmic clicking of heels on pavement—but it all felt muted, like I was hearing it through water. My heartbeat, though, was deafening, pounding like war drums in my ears.
I didn’t have a destination in mind. I drove aimlessly, letting the streets guide me. Left. Right. Another turn. The city lights blurred into streaks of red and gold across the windshield. Maybe I hoped the road would decide for me, lead me somewhere that made sense.
And then, without thinking, I ended up parked outside **Ford**.
Again.
*Why the hell am I here?*
But I already knew.
*Her.*
The waitress from my last visit. The one who’d lingered in my mind like smoke—impossible to grasp, but impossible to ignore. I couldn’t explain it. There was something about the way she looked at me. Like she saw past the curated version of myself I gave the world. Like she saw everything I tried to keep hidden.
I got out of the car. The neon sign above the entrance buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly glow onto the cracked sidewalk. The moment I stepped through the door, the stench of stale liquor and cigarettes hit me hard—heavy, clinging, unpleasant.
And still, I didn’t leave.
Because beneath that grime, I remembered *her*. I remembered the faint, lingering trace of her perfume—soft and floral—floating in contrast to the bar’s sour breath. Like a whisper in chaos. A breath of grace in filth.
The place wasn’t packed tonight. A few men hunched over their drinks at the counter, eyes hollow. Others sat in booths, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones. The bar felt worn down, and yet something in me had been pulled back to it.
I took a seat at the far end—same spot as last time. It gave me a clear view of the door. And more importantly, *her*.
My fingers tapped against the counter, restless, while I stared at the lineup of bottles behind the bar. Soldiers waiting for command.
“What can I get you?” a voice asked.
I looked up.
There she was.
The reason I came.
The woman who’d crept into my thoughts like a song stuck on repeat. I didn’t know her name yet. But her face had become a fixture in my mind. Her tired eyes. That tired smile. That air of just-holding-on.
I swallowed hard, my grip on the edge of the counter tightening.
“You make it a personal choice to attend to me,” I said, trying to dispel the tension in my chest with a touch of dry humor.
Today, she looked even more worn out than last time. Exhausted rather than anxious. Fragile, like a single push might break her.
And I didn’t want to be the one to push her. Oddly… I wanted to hold her together.
“I’m just unlucky,” she replied, voice low and shaky. “Nothing personal.”
I chuckled, a bitter sound. “You hate seeing me here. That’s unfortunate. I plan to start frequenting this place.”
Her jaw ticked. Her chest rose in a sharp breath. She looked like she wanted to run. Or scream. Maybe both.
“Just to mess with me?” she asked.
She dropped the pen and notepad she was holding, her hands trembling.
“Well, I resign,” she snapped. “Go fuck yourself.”
I blinked.
“You heard that, Ford!” she shouted, turning toward the back of the bar.
The man—Ford, the same fool who tried to kiss my ass last week—froze. His eyes went wide.
“Go. Fuck. Yourselves,” she hissed, fury etched into every word.
I stayed seated, watching as she ripped off her gloves and threw them on the counter. Then came her apron—slapped down like a final declaration. She stormed toward the back to change out of her uniform, leaving Ford standing there like a malfunctioning machine.
He lingered in the hallway, jaw slack, too stunned to process. She returned moments later, tossed the balled-up uniform into his arms, and shoved past him. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t summon a single word.
The whole thing made me laugh under my breath. After everything today, I didn’t think I was capable of that.
She strode out the door without looking back. I stood and followed.
The night hit me again—cold and cutting, like the truth.
Just as she turned to run, I caught her wrist.
She spun instinctively, fist flying, but I caught her punch mid-air and turned her to face me.
“Why the hell are you so bent on ruining my life, you bastard?!” she yelled. Her voice cracked, raw and ragged.
I let her go, just in time for the slap.
It landed *hard* against my cheek. The sting bloomed instantly—sharp and cold. But beneath it, I could still smell her perfume—sweet, soft, infuriatingly gentle. The contrast made my skin burn.
I touched my face, half-amused. And—God help me—half turned on.
“You really are one hell of a woman,” I said, the corner of my mouth twitching.
“That’s for making me lose my job, you son of a bitch!” she spat. Her voice shook with fury. With something deeper. Something real.
And still—I couldn’t walk away.