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Damiano laughs, squeezing my hand. “I know. It can’t be real.”

Flint turns back, walking backward for a moment, his grin widening. “You two coming, or what?”

Damiano releases my hand and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me closer as we catch up to Flint. The path curves around a series of small mausoleums, ornate and crumbling, moss growing over names and dates long worn away.

“Imagine spending all eternity here.” Flint stops to peer into one through a rusted iron gate.

We pass the mausoleums and head deeper into the graveyard. A canopy of twisted branches and Spanish moss shadows us from the sun. Back at the entrance, some enterprising soul had set up a booth selling snacks and cold drinks. It’s good business, considering the heat.

Now Flint reaches into his jacket to pull out a bottle of lemonade, taking a long drink before handing it to me.

“Some date,” I tease, taking a sip. It’s sticky sweet, and the tartness makes my eyes water. “Lemonade and dead people.”

The three of us sharing a bottle seems like the most intimate thing in the world.

“Best one ever,” Flint says. He’s serious, I think. “Damiano loves graveyards and dead things.”

It’s Damiano’s turn to take a drink. “You know me so well.” Our voices have gone quiet. “But maybe we should have done some fancy dinner and a movie for Briar’s sake.”

“I told you. No way. I actually prefer this,” I admit. “Shh... don’t tell anyone.”

The crowds are behind us, past the broken walls and hanging vines, just a low hum of energy. We stand in a clearing, surrounded by ancient headstones and marble angels with their faces turned down.

This is what I wanted. This is what I want. I don’t know how long it will last, but I don’t care. We have this moment—together—and it’s everything.

“It’s peaceful,” I say, listening to the distant cries of gulls on the wind.

Flint leans against the black bark of an oak tree, surveying the headstones like he can’t get enough of them.

Damiano sits on a low stone bench, kicking at the loose gravel near his feet. Flint joins him, and they watch me, the two of them side by side in the filtered afternoon light. It makes me smile.

“I can’t believe this is what it took to get the two of you relaxing,” I tease, sitting on the ground now, at their feet.

Flint strokes the back of my neck with a callused thumb, and Damiano looks at him, then at me, something genuine and vulnerable, something right.

“Guess we’re not very good at it,” Damiano admits, and I wonder if he’s talking about relaxing or if it’s something else.

“We’re good at this.” Flint’s words are quiet, and he takes my hand first, then Damiano’s, the three of us linking together.

Whatwill the tourists say if they see us here, like this?

At the mouth of hell, three sinners.

I want to know what happens next, how we end.

It doesn’t really matter.

Like I said, this is what I want.

“You’re cold again,” Damiano says, breaking the comfortable silence. He shrugs off his jacket and places it around my shoulders without waiting for my response.

“Thanks.” I pull it closer, breathing in his scent—earth and herbs and something uniquely him.

Flint produces a small flask from his pocket. “This will warm you up better.”

“Let me guess—the good stuff from behind the bar at The Vault?” I ask, accepting it.

“Only the best for you, princess.” There’s no bite to the nickname anymore, only a gentle teasing that makes me smile.