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“One,” Elias counters.

“Do we…stop it?” Riven asks.

Orin, without turning around, says, “You can’t stop gravity.”

“Well shit,” I mutter, patting Mr. Bean—who is peeking out from the sling across my chest like a confused spectator of this chaotic opera. “Guess we better make popcorn.”

Luna throws her head back, laughing at something Lucien said, and I catch the moment his expression softens like a storm folding into stillness. That’s it. The moment. The shift. The gods-damned point of no return.

And all I can do is stroke my beard and whisper, “We’re so screwed.”

We’re going to be found out. And it’s not going to be because of me—though yes, I’m dressed in a shaggy wool coat I may or may not have borrowed from Ambrose’s closet (don’t tell him, I think it’s cursed)—but because Orin won’tcommit.

You’d think a centuries-old immortal philosopher would know the value of good camouflage, but no. He’s stalking along behind us like a grim reaper on holiday, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, alldignityandsolemn observance.

It’s fucking embarrassing.

“Could you at least hunch a little?” I whisper at him. “Maybe look like you’re in pain? Or mortal?”

Orin doesn’t even blink. His gaze tracks lazily to a fat bird pecking at seeds along the path—some wide-eyed, bloated little pigeon-looking bastard with a limp—and he smiles.Smiles. Like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day.

“I wish I had my binoculars,” he says, voice low and thoughtful, as if that sentence is normal. As if we didn’t just slather glue on our faces like it’s part of a life-or-death mission and sneak out of the house to trail Luna and Lucien like degenerates on a field trip.

“Okay. First of all. Don’t say that. Ever again. Binoculars?” I hiss, pulling a pre-glued mustache from my coat pocket. “You’re going to ruin this whole op with your ornithology kink, old man.”

He opens his mouth to say something else and I do the only logical thing—I slap the mustache across it. Right over that smug, softly parted mouth.

There’s a sound. A softhnfof surprise. Then silence.

Elias wheezes somewhere behind me, stifling laughter into the sleeve of his hoodie. Riven shakes his head, muttering about how he regrets every decision that brought him to this moment. Caspian’s glaring at me like I’m personally offending all of his trauma. And Ambrose? He’s adjusting a pair of dollar storesunglasses I-brand-loaned him, with little palm trees on the sides. He’sintoit. The fucker.

“Silas,” Orin says, voice muffled behind the ‘stache, “this smells like…peach adhesive.”

“It’s organic,” I shrug. “Now act like you’re not royalty walking into a war tribunal.”

“We’re wearing wigs,” Elias deadpans. “There’s no winning here.”

“Exactly!” I spin around dramatically, arms wide, channeling full ringmaster energy. “It’s about theeffort. If we’re going to stalk our emotionally constipated friend and the girl he’s definitely about to ruin or worship, wedo it right.”

“Pretty sure stalking your soulmate while in dollar store disguises is a new low even for us,” Riven says. But he doesn’t stop walking. None of them do.

Which is how I know they’re all in.

The campus bends in front of us, the wide path lined with overgrown hedges and the heavy scent of damp stone and iron in the air. Somewhere up ahead, Luna’s laugh echoes—soft and bright and gods, itdoessomething to me.

Elias slows at my side, and for once, his voice isn’t coated in sarcasm.

“She sounds happy.”

I nod, mustache fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Yeah.”

He glances sideways. “You think we’ll fuck it up?”

I grin, wide and unrepentant. “Wealwaysfuck it up.”

But this time? Maybe we’ll fuck it up together. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll love us for it anyway.

We’ve now enteredOperation: Luna Recon Phase Two—which is just a fancy way of saying we’re crouched behind an ivy-covered wall with six grown men in varying levels of poorly applied mustaches and questionable moral alignment.