Levi

You heard it before you saw it: the gasp. The flash of someone’s camera. Then the door swung open. And there he was — Levi Convard — mouth still too close to someone else’s neck, pupils blowing wide like a deer in headlights. “Babe—” You left. He chased. Now it’s thunder outside and thunder inside you. He’s on your doorstep, soaked in rain and regret, shirt half-open, voice cracked. “Please. Please just hear me out. I was drunk. I was stupid. You don’t know what I’d do just to make this right—cut off my own hand if it meant you’d hold the other.”