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His expression lightens as he takes it from me, examining it between his long fingers. “Perfect.” Our hands touch longer than necessary. “You’re a natural.”

“So is this what dating you is like?” I ask, surprising myself with my boldness. “Foraging for psychedelic mushrooms in the woods?”

He laughs at this, a genuine sound that makes me want to hear it again. “Pretty much. I’m a cheap date.”

“And what about Flint?” I try to sound casual as I pick another mushroom. “What’s dating him like?”

“Dive bars and stolen motorcycles,” Damiano says with a half-smile. “Or at least it used to be.”

“So between the two of you, I get mushroom hunting and bar fights? Not exactly the typical romance.”

Damiano tilts his head, studying me. “What would you prefer? Fancy restaurants? Movies?”

“God no,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I’ve had enough sterile environments to last a lifetime.” I look around at the wild, untamed forest surrounding us. “But maybe something that feels like... I don’t know. An actual date? Something normal people might do.”

“Normal people,” he repeats, amusement in his voice. “I think we lost ‘normal’ somewhere back in the maze.”

“Fair point.” I place another mushroom in his bag. “But still. The three of us should do somethingtogether that doesn’t involve dead bodies or lighthouse sex.”

“I’ll talk to Flint,” he says, and there’s something serious there despite his smile. “Maybe we can come up with something suitably abnormal yet date-like.”

“I’d like that.”

Chapter 25

Damiano

The sun’s barely up when I pull into the gravel lot at the bottom of the cliff where Flint lives. My truck rattles against the uneven ground, an old Range Rover that’s seen better decades but refuses to die. Kind of like us, I guess.

I sit for a minute after killing the engine, watching the morning fog drift across the windshield. The waves crash below, a steady rhythm against the rocks. Maybe coming here wasn’t the smartest idea, but after yesterday with Briar in the woods, talking about dates and normal things people do, I figured it was time to have the conversation—the one Flint and I have been avoiding since the lighthouse.

Hell, since forever.

His shipping container perches on the cliff edge like it’s daring the sea to claim it. Black paint peelingin places, the solar panels on the roof catching what little sunlight breaks through the mist. So perfectly Flint—isolated, defiant, somehow beautiful in its brokenness.

I grab the paper bag from the passenger seat and head up the narrow path carved into the rock face. My boots slip slightly on the damp stone, and I wonder, not for the first time, how the hell he manages this climb when he’s drunk.

I knock twice, hard enough to be heard over whatever music he’s probably blasting inside. Nothing. I knock again, louder.

The door swings open suddenly, and Flint stands there in low-hanging sweatpants, no shirt, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. The white streak falls across his forehead, stark against his sleep-flushed skin.

“The fuck, Damiano?” His voice is rough, irritated. “It’s not even seven.”

“Brought breakfast.” I hold up the bag as a peace offering.

He stares at me for a long moment, then steps back, leaving the door open. I take it as the closest thing to an invitation I’m going to get.

Inside, the container is surprisingly neat. The bed’s unmade, but the rest of the space has that deliberate organization I’ve always associated with Flint—everything in its place, nothing unnecessary. The huge windows facing the ocean fillthe space with gray morning light, turning everything slightly silver.

“Coffee?” he asks, moving to the small kitchen area.

“Yeah.”

I set the bag on his counter and pull out muffins I snagged from Mrs. Fletcher’s cooling rack before leaving the estate. “Mrs. Fletcher’s stress baking again. Cinnamon.”

Flint grunts in acknowledgment, spooning coffee into a French press with methodical movements. His back is to me, the muscles shifting under skin scattered with small scars I could map blindfolded. Some of them are from me. From us.

“So,” he says, not turning around, “you gonna tell me why you’re here at the crack of dawn, or are we doing the strong silent thing?”