Between You and I, P:6 (Baby Daddy! Levi x OC)
Synopsis: A rising political star joins Madeline Wright’s campaign, where ambition and image collide with Amelia’s unexpected promotion. At the café, a rain-soaked visit sparks conversation that blurs lines between professional and personal. Levi’s arrival stirs old tensions, reminding Amelia of everything unresolved between them. Memories of the past pull her back—sweet beginnings with Levi shadowed by secrets he never wanted her to know.
Content Warnings: Vague mentions of child abuse, vague mentions of illegal fighting, political positioning.
Other Notes: Levi Ackerman X OC. Modern AU. Dad Levi. Ex Boyfriend Levi. Second chance romance. Slight deviations with some cannon characters. Dual timelines.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The campaign office thinned out after five. The last of the canvassing calls to Loudoun County voters died out, chatter evaporated, and what remained was mechanical—the lazy whir of a printer, the tapping of two or three keyboards manned by eager staffers still grinding.
She sat at her wobbly desk shoved in the corner, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed in focus as she finished off the communications proposal Madeline had requested earlier. She’d been buried so deep the hours slipped past. Everything had.
Even the man who walked in.
All day the place had buzzed with his name—the new campaign director, the one who’d been delayed out of New York.
Now here he was. Tailored suit, tie neat, briefcase in one hand, coat slung over his arm.
The staffers who had been pretending to pack up stilled, their attention snapping to him as if on cue.
The progressive rising star whose face had already been splashed across The Atlantic and Politico Magazine.
He met their stares with an easy smile, offering quick nods, even a warm “Evening” as he passed.
Amelia didn’t look up, and he didn’t notice her either.
Roderick Johnson lunged forward, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he rushed to catch up. He stuck his hand out mid-stride like he’d just spotted a celebrity at Reagan National. “Roderick Johnson, I’m the Communication m—” He faltered, jaw tightening. “On the comms team. A pleasure, sir. I trust your flight in from JFK to Dulles was comfortable?”
Patrick paused mid-step at the sudden hand in his path—but. didn’t flinch. He simply caught it and kept moving with a measured smile. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Johnson, and my flight was fine, thank you. I’m looking forward to getting started.”
Johnson hustled to stay beside him. “That’s good to hear, sir, very good… If I could, though—just a quick word.” His voice dropped into a conspiratorial hush. “Ms. Wright decided this morning to put a new Communications Manager in place.” He jerked his thumb toward Amelia, still buried in her proposal. “She has no background in the role. No degree. None. This could throw the whole team off track. I think it would help if you spoke with Madeline, urged her to reconsider.”
Patrick slowed, just long enough to glance at Amelia. Young. Focused. Clearly working hard.
He turned back, that same calm smile smoothing everything down. “I’ll talk to Madeline. See where her head’s at.”
Even though he had zero intention…
Roderick sagged with relief. “Thank you, sir! That would mean a great deal. Really, truly—”
Patrick gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, already edging toward the inner office door. “Keep up the good work, Mr. Johnson.”
In his eagerness, Roderick tried to follow. “Of course, sir. Absolutely. And if you ever need anything—”
Patrick reached the door, flashing one last quick smile over his shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And with that, he slipped inside, leaving Roderick mouthing another thank you to the wood paneling.
The air in Madeline’s office felt quieter. More controlled.
“Your team seems… nice,” Patrick said, careful to frame it politely as he crossed into the office.
Madeline Wright leaned back in her chair, perfectly at ease. “Don’t mind him. He’s just sore that I demoted him this morning.”
“I see.” Patrick set his briefcase down and claimed the chair across from her. “Then let’s cut to it. You didn’t bring me down from New York just to run a campaign.”
Madeline’s mouth curved. “You catch on quick.”
“You intend to name me Chief of Staff when the time is right.”
“Precisely. Your popularity is outpacing every projection we made. But popularity isn’t enough to win a Senate race. There are still certain things that need to be… refined.”
Patrick tilted his head. “I’m listening.”
His brows pinched together. “I’m not sure I follow. What does my personal life have to do with my dedication to serving the people?”
“When you want their vote, everything,” she said simply before she rose from her seat, slowly walking the sparse stretch of the office as she spoke. “You’ve risen like a heartthrob—TIME even ran a piece calling you the ‘next Kennedy.’ You’ve got your face on their TVs, but excitement isn’t enough. You’ll need trust, legacy, an image of stability, and nothing embodies that more than a family.”
Patrick shifted. “My father plays a respectable round of golf. Perhaps we stage a photo op or two on the green—”
Madeline cut him off with a short laugh. “Cute. But no. You need a wife, Patrick. And you need her before the race.”
“I know what you’re about to say. It’s not that simple. Of course it isn’t. But you’re resourceful. Find someone, and make sure she has more brains in her head than in her bra. Someone who strengthens your image, not weakens it.”
Patrick was silent, weighing her words. His jaw tightened. “That’s no small thing to ask.”
“Neither is me selecting you as my right hand in the largest campaign of my political career,” she countered smoothly.
Patrick looked down at his hands. He’d given his entire life to serving the people, to being a man they could trust.
He thought of the donors, the volunteers ringing phones in strip-mall offices across Virginia. Those people were counting on him to make their effort mean something. So, if this was what it took to cross the line… wasn’t that, in its own way, a kind of service too?
He exhaled, decision hardening like cement. “Fine. I’ll start looking.”
Madeline smiled, satisfied. “Excellent.”
She didn’t linger on it. She slid a folder across the desk. “Now—fundraising. The Richmond dinner next week is light on commitments. We need more of the Fairfax donors locked in before the quarter closes.”
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting gears. “I’ll reach out to—”
He was interrupted by a knock. The room went silent, just for a moment.
“Come in,” Madeline called.
Then, like a deus ex machina dropped from the rafters, the door opened—and a young woman stepped inside.
But… that young woman was Amelia.
“I’m so sorry to intrude, Ms. Wright,” she said apologetically. “I just wanted to bring you the finished proposal you asked for.”
Suddenly, Madeline’s lips curled into the knowing smile of someone who’d just had a brilliant idea.
“Please, Amelia,” she said smoothly. “Call me Madeline.”
Amelia hesitated before smiling. “Okay, I can do that… Madeline.” Testing out the name.
Madeline lifted her hand, gesturing for her to join them. “Come in. I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
Amelia crossed the room, placing the proposal on the desk. Patrick hadn’t looked up yet, still chewing on the demands laid before him.
“Patrick?” Madeline’s voice drew him back. He lifted his gaze. “This is Amelia Evans, my new Communications Manager.”
Patrick rose, extending a hand politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Evans.”
“You too,” she replied. “Sorry to hear your flight was delayed.”
“No trouble at all. It’s like I always say—if there’s something wrong with the plane, I’d rather be delayed than be on it.”
Guess he was taking the ‘next Kennedy’ thing to heart…
Amelia smiled faintly. “Hard to argue with that.”
Patrick still hadn’t caught on.
Amelia turned back to Madeline. “If you’d like, I can go through the proposal—”
“No need,” Madeline interrupted with a raised hand. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Go ahead and get home to your daughter. Lilly, right?”
“Yes.” Amelia’s face softened. “Lilly.”
“How sweet,” Madeline said with a kind smile. “Well, we will call it at that for the day then. Enjoy your evening.”
“Oh… okay, well, goodnight then,” Amelia said, smoothing down her skirt before turning for the door. “And good meeting you, Mr. Anderson.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Patrick replied, watching her go.
The door clicked shut. Silence lingered.
Patrick glanced at Madeline. She didn’t say a word—just gave him a look. And when he finally caught it, he froze.
Madeline picked up the proposal, flipping through it idly. “Small business owner. Humble background. Single mom.”
Patrick’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes drifted, the weight of the suggestion settling in.
He understood. He didn’t have to say a word…
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
By the time Amelia burst through the front doors of the café, her pulse was still racing, urgency spilling through her every step. The bell above the door gave a frantic jingle, and she didn’t even bother shrugging her bag off before calling out.
“Sorry I had to stay late!”
Behind the counter, Petra glanced up from a clipboard, pen braced between her teeth. From the looks of it, she was toggling between tallying syrup bottles and a half-finished Sudoku in the margins.
“No skin off my back,” she said, calm as ever. Then she lifted her eyes, catching Amelia in her frantic state. “How was your first day, Campaign Queen?”
Amelia ignored the nickname, already moving, snagging the sales ledger from the end of the counter and skimming the afternoon totals. A sticky note clung to the back, reminding her the pastry order still hadn’t been confirmed. Typical. Life never stopped needing her.
“Better than I ever could’ve imagined,” she said, voice bubbling over with leftover adrenaline. “I got promoted.”
Petra’s eyebrows shot up. “On your first day?”
“Uh-huh!” Amelia leaned across the counter, lowering her voice like they had an audience—even though the place was empty save for the two of them. “I got called on by Madeline Wright herself. I panicked, word-vomited all over the place—”
“—but apparently it wasn’t vomit, it inspired her! My little rant is now the new direction of the whole comms strategy, Petra. The whole team!”
Petra slapped the clipboard against her palm, grinning. “Hell yeah! See? I told you you’d kill it. Your old UVA professor can suck my dick.”
Amelia laughed. “Pet, he was a nice old man.”
“Nah, he was a fucking asshole. I still haven’t forgiven him for giving you a D on that paper about…” She snapped her fingers, trying to recall. “What was it—agricultural subsidies in developing economies or some shit?”
Amelia blinked. “I cannot believe you remember that.”
“Duh. I’m your best friend. Memorizing your grievances is part of the job description.” Petra ducked behind the counter to stow the clipboard, still muttering, “Guy thought he was smarter than you. Joke’s on him—now you’re running campaigns and he’s probably still grading half-baked essays about Reaganomics.”
Amelia shook her head, warmth creeping into her cheeks despite herself. She bent to the pastry case, busying her hands with sticky notes, writing orders that didn’t need to be written. She couldn’t sit in praise too long.
And then Petra’s tone shifted, sly.
“So—speaking of sucking dick…” Petra started, way too innocently. “How’d things go with your secret-agent accountant baby daddy?”
Amelia’s head snapped up. “Jesus, Pet.” However, the corner of her mouth betrayed her—curving, small but certain.
Petra caught it instantly. She leaned forward on her elbows, grinning like a cat who’d spotted blood. “Oh my god. What was that? That was a smile. Something happened.”
“Nothing happened,” Amelia said, way too fast.
“Uh-huh.” Petra dragged out the syllables. “You’re glowing. Spill it.”
Amelia pressed her lips together, but the memory was already flickering at the edges of her mind—the smell of his cologne, the heat of his hand at her waist, his forehead pressed to hers. That low voice that always cut right through her composure. She had to turn away, now pretending to fuss with the espresso machine.
Petra narrowed her eyes. “Amelia. Don’t make me waterboard you with oat milk.”
Amelia huffed a laugh, finally giving in. “Well, you know he came over last night to fix that leaking pipe. After he finished, we were in the kitchen, just… talking. Lilly had bargained with him to read her bedtime stories, so he was about to head down the hall, and then—” She broke off, shaking her head.
Petra leaned forward. “And then what?”
Amelia hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip before finally saying it. “He was… close. Like close close. He caught my wrist and then he tucked my hair back, and—” She stopped again, heat climbing into her cheeks. “It felt like… if Lilly hadn’t called for him right then, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
Petra’s grin went feral. “Ohhh, bitch.”
Amelia shot her a look. “Don’t.”
“I’m so going to... He was gonna kiss you.”
“Maybe,” Amelia admitted, barely above a whisper.
Petra tried to smother her grin, but her eyes sparkled. “So what, you two are back on?”
“No.” Amelia shook her head, firm. “We’re not back on. We can’t be. Last time we slept together, we promised—again—that it couldn’t happen anymore.”
“No, we meaning both of us. Lilly’s getting older, Pet. She surprises me sometimes with how much she notices. We don’t want to confuse her.”
“Uh-huh, I give it a week.”
Amelia fiddled with the sugar packets, just giving her hands something to do. “It’s not just that. I don’t know what he wants anymore. He’s such a good dad—like, so good. And part of me—” She faltered. “Part of me thinks maybe… things could be different if we tried again. But what if he doesn’t want me like that anymore? What if it’s just… over?”
Petra tilted her head, reading her. “And what do you want? Do you think you are over everything that happened?”
Amelia let out a breath that wavered between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I tell myself I’ll sit him down, say the words, just lay it out. But then he’s there, and it’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room. He looks at me and I just—”
“God. Yes.” Amelia dropped her head into her hands.
Petra studied her for a long beat. “You still love him.”
Amelia stayed silent. She doubted there was a universe in which she’d ever stop. But she didn’t say that out loud. Her pulse thudded hard, same as it had last night in that kitchen—when his thumb slid under her shirt, when their lips hovered a breath apart.
Petra nudged her shoulder. “Hey, don’t freak out. Just think about it. What’s scarier—saying it, or never saying it and wondering forever?”
Amelia lowered her hands, staring at the counter but not really seeing it. “Honestly? Both.”
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Later, the café had gone quiet. Petra was in the back, clattering through closing duties, while Amelia sat at one of the back tables with the payroll binder open in front of her. Outside, rain spilled steady against the windows, drumming the glass like it had no plans of stopping.
Unlike Levi, math had never been her strong suit, and where he could cut through this bullshit in minutes, for Amelia stuff like payroll was just an exhausting slog.
She sighed, her chin resting in her hand as she lazily turned to the next page. What caught her eye, however, was not the page of numbers she was expecting—it was a little doodle. The handiwork of a certain five-year-old.
From left to right: a tall skirted stick figure, which she could only assume was meant to be her; then a shorter stick figure with a yellow crown and a pink tutu (no doubt who that was); and, of course, on the right, another stick figure with big black angry eyebrows and a flat line for a mouth.
Unbelievable. Levi was scowling even in their child’s drawing.
She snorted, hand flying up to smother the sound. At the bottom of the page, a cat with giant ears sprawled beside a box overflowing with what looked like dollar bills. The swear jar. The cat fund. Of course. Perhaps the presence of the cat explained stick-figure Levi’s sour attitude.
Knowing this masterpiece had to be shared with its intended audience, Amelia took out her phone and snapped a picture before attaching it to a text.
Amelia: look what your daughter left on my payroll.
She set her phone down, not expecting an immediate reply, so she was surprised when her screen lit up shortly after.
She grinned, blue light softening her features.
Amelia: a family portrait, obviously.
Levi: my lawyers will be in contact.
Amelia: what? come on, it’s her artistic vision.
Levi: this is your fault. the brat told me she’d keep drawing damn cats every day until I cave.
Levi: she gets the guilt-tripping from you. all I contributed were my good looks.
Amelia laughed, shaking her head, but before she fired back:
She clicked to enlarge it.
It was Lilly fast asleep in her booster seat, head lolling to the side, her pink baby blanket twisted around her in a crooked mess. Hoppy, the stuffed rabbit, wedged securely under her arm like always.
Levi: out cold. easy night for us.
Amelia’s chest gave a little squeeze.
Amelia: well done, i should pawn her off on you more often.
Then, as the ellipses pulsed—signaling he was typing out his next reply—a different banner slid down from the top of her phone, signaling another text from an unknown number.
Amelia’s brows pinched as she debated whether to finish the conversation with Levi or check it out. Curiosity got the better of her, so she opened the message.
Unknown: Hey, Amelia, this is Patrick Anderson from Madeline’s campaign. I hope you don’t mind that I pulled your number from the employee file. I was reviewing the proposal you wrote up and have a couple of questions, if you’ve got time.
Her brows furrowed in curiosity. Patrick Anderson. She hadn’t expected him to text her directly, let alone after hours.
For a moment she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering, mind running through possible reasons. Eventually, she hit “Add Contact,” saving his name before she started typing.
She backspaced. Too casual. She tried again, fingers moving slower this time, choosing her words more carefully.
Amelia: Good evening, Mr. Anderson. I don’t mind at all. I’m happy to help clear up any confusion. What questions did you have?
Her eyes drifted back to the payroll binder. Stick-figure Levi scowling at her from the page… The vibration of her phone pulled her gaze down.
Patrick Anderson: Well, first off… Do you happen to have a towel?
Amelia blinked. She frowned at the screen, reread it twice. A towel? What kind of question was that?
Before she could puzzle it out, the bell over the café door clanged. A gust of cold air carried in the sound of the downpour, and when she looked up—there he was. Patrick Anderson, standing in the doorway, hair plastered to his forehead, Armani suit dripping onto the welcome mat.
For a second, Amelia just stared, phone still in her hand. The absurdity of it—Patrick Anderson, campaign golden boy, dripping like a drowned cat in the middle of her café.
“…Guess that explains the towel,” she murmured under her breath.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Patrick stood at her sink, sleeves shoved up, silk tie wrung out between his fists like it was a dishrag. He glanced over his shoulder when Amelia reappeared.
“Spend too much on the BMW that you couldn’t afford an umbrella?” she teased, holding a towel out.
The corner of his mouth ticked upward as he accepted it, polite even now.
“Something like that,” he said, running it through his hair, leaving it mussed and curling at the ends instead of slicked back. “Forgot it at the office. Rookie mistake.”
The transformation was jarring… Gone was the glossy poster boy who’d strode in from JFK earlier; standing in his place was a man who looked almost… boyish. Looser in the shoulders, softer, likely embarrassed having landed in her café like this.
“Sorry to drop in unannounced, by the way,” he added. “My car’s parked a block over, and I thought I’d beat the storm, but…” He gestured vaguely toward the window where rain lashed the glass.
“No worries,” Amelia said, leaning her hip against the counter, arms folded. “The weather is all over the place this time of year, but I wouldn’t expect a New Yorker to know that.”
That tugged a chuckle out of him, low and self-deprecating as he kept working the towel through his hair.
For a moment he just stood there, shoulders loose, eyes drifting around the café like he was really seeing it for the first time.
Amelia watched him quietly, wondering what was running through his head.
“Coffee?” she asked at last.
“I’d love that. Black, if you don’t mind.”
She gave him a small smile, pushing off the counter. The familiar rhythm steadied her—measure the grounds, portafilter, tamp, steam wand, hiss.
“Did you really come all the way over here to ask about my proposal?”
Patrick straightened, some of that looseness falling away as the campaigner in him surfaced. “I did. I read it cover to cover… It’s strong. Progressive without tipping into sloganeering, and the focus on authenticity—that’s exactly where the electorate is leaning. People don’t want to be managed anymore. They want to believe the person on the podium is the same one off it, that they’re being spoken with, not talked down to.” He paused, running a hand back through his damp hair. “But that’s where it gets complicated. Too much transparency, and the opposition will mine every word for weakness. Too little, and it collapses into the kind of pre-packaged messaging voters have learned to tune out. Finding the balance—being real without leaving things exposed—that’s the challenge.”
“You’re right. The balance matters. But if we spend all our time trying to thread that needle—trying to be cautious—we’re already playing defense. And people can smell that. The ones who hedge, the ones who protect themselves like that… those are the ones who have something to hide. And the public feels it. And more than that, setting that precedent—acting defensively before we’ve even been challenged—undercuts everything we’re trying to build. It weakens trust. People can’t believe we’re being real if we look like we’re afraid of our own shadow.”
She turned back to the machine, flipped the switch, steam hissing to life. “Frankly, my plan isn’t about managing what people feel about Madeline. If that’s the road we go down, then we’re already bending the truth to fit the optics, and from there it’s a slippery slope into straight manipulation. And if she has to pretend to deserve the job—if she has to be packaged into someone she isn’t—then maybe the harder question is: does she actually deserve to represent the people?”
The coffee poured slow and dark into the cup. Amelia slid it toward him, meeting his eyes now, steady. “My plan banks on the fact that she does. That her nature and her ideas are strong enough to stand on their own. You’re right—the people want something real. But realness isn’t a PR tactic. It’s not a strategy. It just… is. If the opposition comes at us, if they twist her words, we clarify. We stand firm. And if we’ve built a reputation on consistency, on honesty, then the line holds.”
Her eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “That’s the campaign I believe in. Not dodging, not rehearsing for the next punch. Just… telling the truth. And letting people decide if they believe in it.”
Patrick studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable at first. Then something shifted in his gaze—recognition, maybe even admiration. “I see what Madeline saw in you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “That clarity. That conviction. It’s rare.”
Amelia blinked, caught off guard. Compliments always left her off balance—she dropped her gaze, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well… I talk a lot when I get riled up.”
Their talk stretched on, the storm outside a steady backdrop. At first it was strategy and numbers, but before long Patrick was telling her about an NYU debate that went sideways when a fire alarm cut his closing argument short—he’d had to deliver it to half his class out on the sidewalk. Amelia laughed, countering with the time a tourist tried to order a “venti triple caramel frappuccino” at the café, and her grandfather handed them a plain black coffee, deadpan: “This is Virginia, boy.”
Suddenly, Amelia’s focus was broken by the faint buzz in her pocket. Shit, she had forgotten she’d been texting Levi. She pulled her phone free and saw a couple of missed texts, the last one being:
She thumbed a response back quickly.
Amelia: barely. payroll is going to eat me alive.
The corners of her mouth softened despite herself.
Patrick clocked the flicker of her smile; he didn’t comment, just sipped his coffee, eyes on her.
“Whoever that is,” he said lightly, “they’ve got good timing. I was about to start boring you with another policy anecdote.”
Amelia tucked the phone into her pocket. “Not boring,” she countered.
His brows lifted a little. “That’s generous. Most people would’ve zoned out halfway through my spiel about suburban turnout.”
Amelia shook her head. “Ever worked a café counter? I’ve heard far duller monologues, trust me. At least yours had a point.”
That earned the faintest laugh out of him. “Well, I’ll take the win.” He checked his watch, pushing off the counter. “I should let you get back to closing up. You’ve already been more gracious than I had any right to expect, considering I showed up looking like I’d swum here.”
Amelia huffed a laugh. “It’s fine. The entertainment value alone was worth it.” She ducked beneath the counter, came back up with a spare umbrella, and set it on the counter between them. “Here. At least try not to drown on the way back to your car.”
He held up a hand immediately, half-bashful. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Take it,” she insisted, pushing it toward him. “You can just give it back to me at the office tomorrow.”
There was a beat, then he nodded, slipping the umbrella under his arm. “Thanks.”
She gave a small nod in return. “Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed, shrugging into his jacket before heading toward the door. His hand touched the knob, but he hesitated. Paused. Turned back, lips pressed together.
Amelia, mid-wipe on the counter, noticed at once. She stopped, cloth stilled in her hand. “Everything okay?”
Patrick hesitated a second longer, then decided to risk it. “Actually… would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
Amelia blinked. The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Her mouth parted, then shut again. “…Oh.”
Patrick saw the pause, the flicker of uncertainty in her face. Immediately, he softened the angle of it. “To talk through the campaign… Your ideas are promising, and I’d value the chance to discuss them more fully. Over a meal, somewhere quieter than the office.”
Amelia studied him carefully. His eyes weren’t pressing, just steady. He looked safe—earnest, damp hair still falling across his forehead. No pressure, no edge. Just an open offer.
“For the campaign?” she asked, cautious.
“For the campaign,” he confirmed, voice warm and certain.
She lingered in hesitation, but finally nodded. “All right. That sounds… nice.”
Patrick’s smile broke wide and bright. “Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at the office—we can figure out the details then.”
Patrick was just about to leave again, hand on the door, when the bell over it gave a sharp jingle.
Amelia’s head snapped up. Levi stepped inside, shaking the rain from his umbrella, face deadpan as his gaze swept the room. His eyes landed on Patrick, lingering a fraction too long, territorial in that way he always was with any man near her.
Amelia’s pulse jumped. She moved fast, words tumbling out, damage control instinctive. “Levi… this is Patrick. He’s my boss.” She made the word firm, pointed. Then she gestured. “Patrick, this is Levi. Lilly’s father.”
Patrick offered his hand smoothly. “Nice to meet you.”
Levi hesitated, eyes narrowing just slightly, but after a beat he clasped it—brief, firm, begrudging. Only because Patrick was her boss.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable on one side, unbothered on the other. Levi turned back to Amelia, his tone softening. “Lilly’s still asleep in the car. You got your key? I’ll carry her up.”
“Yeah,” she said quickly, reaching into her pocket and crossing the floor to press the keys into his palm.
His gaze caught hers, steady, softer now. “Be up in a bit?”
“Mhm. Just closing up down here.”
“’Kay.” Levi gave Patrick a curt nod, then slipped back out into the storm, umbrella snapping open with a flick.
The door had barely swung shut before the silence in the café shifted again. Patrick cleared his throat, his smile reappearing. “Well,” he said, voice smooth, “that’s my cue. Thank you again for the coffee… and the umbrella.”
Amelia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, already restless to be upstairs. “Of course. Have a good night, Patrick.”
He gave a short nod, but his eyes lingered on her a moment longer than they needed to. It wasn’t pushy, wasn’t sly—just curious, like he was still carrying part of the conversation with him.
For a second Amelia almost asked what he was thinking, but before she could, he dipped his head, straightened his coat, and turned for the door.
The bell jingled once, and then he was gone.
Amelia stood there, unsure what to make of that last look. He’d said dinner was for the campaign, but there’d been something else in his eyes before he left—something that stirred questions she wasn’t ready to chase tonight.
Payroll numbers still swam at the edges of her vision, columns and equations tangling until her head ached. That, too, could wait until tomorrow.
Right now, Levi was upstairs with their daughter.
That was where her thoughts pulled her. Where the ache in her chest eased. Where it felt warm, safe—like it used to, or at least how she wanted to remember it feeling.
However, she had yet to learn at that time, the pain he had actually been carrying whilst in that warmth…
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
“Mils!” Furlan’s voice pulled her out of her trance. Had she been falling asleep? The cafeteria buzzed with the chatter of masses of students congregated within those four walls, eating lunch.
Amelia blinked her hazel eyes, reorienting herself.
“Y-yeah?” she said, rubbing her eye, pupils still adjusting to the afternoon light slanting in through the windows lining the ceiling.
“You gonna finish your milk?” Furlan asked, pointing toward her unopened carton of chocolate milk she got from the lunch line.
She let out a huff of a chuckle before picking it up and holding it out to him.
“Fucking score. A lot of milk builds strong bones. Bet you didn’t know that, Miche.”
Miche was too busy talking, and making goo-goo eyes at Nanaba, whom was sitting right next to him making goo-goo eyes right back.
“Yuck,” Petra said, stabbing her usual: Caesar salad—light dressing, no croutons, with her plastic fork. “You know milk is, like, mostly cow pus cells, right?”
“Ew, Petra,” Amelia groaned, clapping her hands over her ears, “And, they’re white blood cells, not pus.”
Furlan huffed. “Yeah, well, you’d know all about cows, wouldn’t ya?”
Petra’s palms smacked the table. “And what the hell does that mean?”
He scrambled. “Means you look like you’re… from where they live. Y’know, the cow places.”
That… was not the insult anyone thought he was going for.
The table blinked at him.
“A barn?” Petra shot back, one brow arched.
“The country?” Amelia offered, equally unsure.
Furlan opened his mouth, still chewing over which option sounded better—
“Oi.” The word dropped in low, even, from right beside Amelia. The weight of an arm settled around her shoulders, the warmth of it anchoring her instantly. “Furlan, just drink your milk,” Levi said, taking a sip from his thermos. His eyes cut sideways, unimpressed. “And if you’re gonna insult people, at least don’t be embarrassing.”
Furlan tossed his hands up at Levi, like—Really, man? You’re supposed to be on my side. Amelia broke into a laugh.
“Burn,” Petra said, flicking him off…
Amelia looked over, tucked into the cradle of his arm. He looked at her too, then gave her a warm but subtle smile.
This was how things were in the early days…
New, exciting, warm, comforting. Being Saint Kat’s most aloof scholarship case’s girlfriend had many, many perks.
It started innocent enough—an arm around her shoulders at lunch while he discussed things with Miche and Furlan. His hand reaching out for hers, lacing their fingers together as they walked down the hall. Him occasionally pulling her closer, guiding her so no one knocked into her.
Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, he’d be watching her, then reach out, tucking her hair behind her ear without saying a word before returning his undivided attention to whatever she was saying—even if she had a hard time getting back on track after that.
Levi was sweet. Steady. She trusted him, and she loved spending time with him. Things were like that—the innocent relationship of two kids dipping their toes into what it means to be another person’s person for the first time, only to realize they were really, really good at being each other’s person.
By the time Levi’s eighteenth birthday came and went in the winter, the kissing got deeper. The embraces tighter. The touches bolder. The intensity elevated.
One kiss behind an open locker would turn into two, which would turn into three, and before they even had a chance to evaluate if it was a good idea or not, her back would be pressed against the metal—his mouth on hers as she tried not to giggle.
Under the bleachers—the place where they first met, where she’d snatched his beer and he called her “Mils” for the first time—bore witness to many moments: his hand threaded through her hair, her jaw angled, her thighs bracketing his hips, their mouths slanting into each other’s like they needed to kiss to breathe.
Every time it lit Amelia up from the inside, like a firecracker going off in her stomach. They wouldn’t stop until her jaw hurt, or their lips were swollen, or the bell rang—usually all three at the same time.
He’d smirk at her then, and it would make her laugh, pressing her forehead to his, their noses bumping into each other.
“What are you laughing about?” she’d tease him.
He’d just pull her back in, said she was cute when she mouthed off.
But there was something peculiar that she noticed… Sometimes they’d be kissing—her hands on him, his on her—but she’d touch certain spots and he’d wince, causing her to pull back. It looked like she’d hurt him, but he assured her he was just nervous.
She had no clue what he was hiding then, just that there was still so much she didn’t know about him, so much he was choosing to shield her from. He just didn’t want her to look at him differently.
His home life. Kenny. The fighting. The bruises…
Amelia looked at Levi like someone who wasn’t broken. He liked that. He wanted to ensure it would stay like that.
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One day he was at his locker, sorting through his textbooks, deciding which ones he needed for his next couple of periods and which ones he could skate by leaving behind, when suddenly Furlan walked up. His locker was just a couple down from Levi’s, so he saw him there almost every day.
“What’s up, man?” Furlan said, face hidden by his locker.
Levi looked over—nothing out of the ordinary. “Not much. Just trying to mentally prepare myself for Mrs. Nelson’s lesson today on ‘The Miracle of Life.’”
“Hah, for real. Like teenagers don’t already spend every damn day obsessing about sex.”
Levi huffed. He thought about Mils then—one, because he was a teenager, and two, because they’d been dating a while and if things kept progressing, sooner or later… well. That was self-explanatory.
Suddenly Furlan closed his locker, and Levi saw his face for the first time that day. He couldn’t help but be taken aback. Furlan had a gigantic shiner.
“The hell happened to you?” Levi asked, as if he didn’t already know.
“Got put in the ring last night.”
Levi just stood there. He never knew what to say when it came to the fights. It was like his throat would just lock up and words became impossible.
“You’re lucky Kenny’s off screwin’ around in Thailand. There’s this new guy in the ring—big bastard. Built like a damn oak tree. Might actually be the first one to knock you on your ass.”
Levi turned back to his open locker, forced himself to snap out of it. “Yeah, maybe,” he said in a flat tone, shoveling a textbook into his backpack.
Furlan looked over at him. “What does Mils think about it… you know, what he makes you do?”
“Doesn’t know about it. And that’s how it’s going to stay.”
Furlan stewed on that for a moment, turning over the likelihood of that plan actually lasting.
He looked over. Furlan kept on, “C’mon, man—she’s gonna put it together sooner or later. Kenny’s gone right now, yeah, but he’s going to come back eventually. What then?”
Levi swallowed hard and looked away, turning it over in his head. The closest Amelia had ever come to finding out was one night in the back of his truck. They’d been kissing, and her hand slid under his sweatshirt—right onto a fresh bruise, causing him to jolt.
She saw that mark—he knew she did.
He remembered the worry on her face as she asked him what happened, how she kept pressing him for more information when his attempts at sidestepping no longer satisfied her.
He’d almost gotten angry. Not at her—though how the hell would she have known the difference? She had no clue. The truth of everything was just getting harder and harder to hold back and Levi could feel the seams bursting.
“Levi,” she’d said. “I don’t want to push you to talk about something you’re not willing to… I just want to know that you’re safe.”
He’d never seen that look on her face before. He never wanted to see it again.
Levi came back to the conversation with Furlan just as the bell rang. He blinked, expression stern and controlled, shutting his locker harder than necessary. “She’s never going to know. And it’s going to stay that way because I’m not fucking going in that ring again. Kenny can go to Hell.”
Furlan felt torn. They both knew what Levi’s uncle was like so him getting out of fighting would be easier said than done.
“Seriously.” Levi’s voice cut sharp, final. “I’m not doing it anymore. I’m eighteen, and I’ll be in college soon—far from this dump. Mils too. She deserves better than this shit, I won’t drag her into it, and make her sad.”
The words came out flat, almost casual, but the steel in them was unmistakable. He shouldered his bag, jaw set like concrete, and walked away before Furlan could respond.
Furlan stayed behind, staring after him, worry etched into him, because while he knew Levi could say he was done all he wanted…
Kenny Ackerman didn’t take no for an answer.
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