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Riven’s in a floppy gardening hat. He looks like someone’s haunted grandmother who collects crystal skulls and gives unsolicited advice on fertility spells. Caspian has on a hoodie with the wordsI’m Not Caspianwritten in what appears to be permanent marker.

And Orin—oh, ancient, judgmental Orin—is still wearing the mustache I assaulted him with earlier, now crooked over his lip like it’s lost the will to live. He hasn’t said a word since. He’s either plotting my death or entering his villain arc.

Elias is chewing the edge of the wig I gave him and pretending he’s not invested, which is alie, because every time Luna laughs—every single time—his neck jerks toward her like he’s a wolf scenting blood in the snow.

And me? I’m pressed flat to the grass like a military sniper, holding up a pair of opera glasses I absolutely didnotsteal from Lucien’s study and muttering live commentary like I’m narrating a nature documentary.

“Subject has brushed Lucien’s arm. No reaction. Repeat: no outward affection detected. However… Lucien issmiling.”

“That’s not a smile,” Riven says behind me. “That’s a facial twitch. He’s fighting a sneeze.”

“No one smiles like that over pollen,” I hiss. “That’s aman in love.”

Ambrose’s jaw ticks. “Lucien doesn’t fall in love.”

“Lucien also doesn’t go on walks,” Elias mutters. “I thought he got nosebleeds if he stepped outside before noon.”

“They’rebonding,” I say darkly, drawing it out like it’s a death sentence. “Which means we need to escalate.”

“No,” Orin says flatly from behind me, voice dry and unamused. “You don’t even know what escalation means.”

“I do!” I whisper-yell. “It means we go deeper. Closer. Moreimmersive.”

“I’m not wearing a second mustache,” Orin replies.

“Fine.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a prop I’ve beendyingto use.

A pair of latex elf ears.

“Absolutely not,” Riven says instantly.

“They’re authentic,” I argue, holding them up. “They’re vintage. Enchanted. Elven-chic.”

“Are we blending in or auditioning for a traveling fae circus?” Caspian asks, deadpan.

Before I can answer, Lunastops. Mid-step. Her head tilts, brow furrowing, and her eyes scan the hedge wall.

Sheknows.

I flatten. Elias drops like he’s been shot. Orin just sighs and steps behind a tree with the dignified air of a man who regrets every one of his thousands of years.

“She knows,” Ambrose growls, already reaching for the dagger strapped to his thigh likethat’sgoing to help us in a covert stakeout.

I lift my head just enough to see Luna lean in and whisper something to Lucien, who—that bastard—glances directly toward our hiding spot and smirks.

Smirks.

“Oh, it’s on,” I whisper. “He knows we’re watching and he likes it.”

“This is spiraling,” Elias says from the dirt. “This is absolutely spiraling.”

But none of us move. Not a single one. Because she's still walking with him. Because she hasn’t come back. Because every step she takes with him is another nail in the coffin of my composure. And because love—real love—isn’t patient. It’s obsessive. It's desperate. It wears fake mustaches and elf ears and hides in bushes if it means getting three seconds closer to the girl you’d burn the world for.

Even if she’s laughing with someone else.

Even if it’s Lucien.

I motion for everyone to move in closer. Tactical formation. Stealthy. Professional. You’d think we were hunting a rare creature, not stalking our best friend and the immortal tyrant she’s maybe-laughing-with-too-much.