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“Max! Max! ”

Someone is yelling through the ringing in my ears. Vision blurry, temples pounding, it’s like I’ve dunked my head in a bucket of seawater, and all I can think is I can’t believe it, it’s happening, this is really happening but I can’t believe it . Wooden shrapnel tangles in my hair, ashy smoke burns my lungs, and I’m spreading out my fingertips, reaching, reaching for anything stable. A wall. A chair. What I find is someone’s hand, someone’s fingers wrapping tight around mine—gripping, tugging, and now I know it’s Flynn shouting, close enough to my ear that his words break through. “Get— out— of here.” His arm loops around my midsection, helping me stand upright; I feel the frantic energy of him, the solidness of him, the way his pulse becomes my pulse as we shuffle together, darting through the smoke. He is all muscle and movement, the only thing holding me together besides the pounding in my head that’s telling me Run, run .

I tell myself to focus on Flynn and only Flynn. That’s all you need to do, Max . Just the sound of his voice. Just the press of his hand, the brush of his beard against my cheek. How he’s protecting me with his entire body, tucking me into the familiar nook of his chest. Where I’ve always felt safe. Where he’s always held me.

Am I bleeding ? I feel that now, alongside the ear-ringing and the heat of his core, a slow trickle down the side of my neck, and—

Sofia.

Where’s Sofia ?

I must be yelling her name. Must be screaming. In my throat is the startled throb of my heartbeat, and her name, burning, and I’m just…closing my fingers around Flynn’s hand, putting one foot in front of the other, staggering into the main dining room, a few of the vines hanging down from the ceiling, broken wineglasses under my feet and dishes cracked. More sounds: the crunch beneath my shoe soles, Flynn’s breath against my ear, the panicked bleat of a growing alarm. The restaurant’s fire alarm?

In the chaos, I glance behind me, hoping to spot Sofia, and I do see her, the hazy outline of her, coughing, her head of security throwing a protective arm over her shoulders and leading her, along with another officer, out the back way. Two chunks of hair sweep from her bun, and—that’s all I catch before she disappears. That’s all I’m processing, except the grip of Flynn’s hand and the strength of Flynn’s arms as we lead each other—me just as much as him—out into the street. We burst with the smoke through the door, patrons from distant restaurants already clamoring toward the scene. Neighbors are fleeing their houses, rushing to help, rushing to see the cause of the blast, but I’m being swallowed by security. Shielded by security. Shoved into the passenger’s seat of the Range Rover as Flynn takes the wheel, speeding us away with a surge of motion, foot flat on the gas pedal. “Just listen to my voice,” he says, quiet. So quiet. Is he speaking that low, or are my ears that bad? “Max, can you hear me? It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

“Are you okay?” I manage, throat dry, half-choked with fumes. Eyes unglazing a touch, I blink over at him—and he doesn’t look okay. His blondish hair is black in places, covered in debris and soot. The linen of his suit is singed, ripped at the collarbone, exposing a thick slice of skin. He doesn’t seem to be bleeding, but—

I take that back.

He swipes at a cut above his eyebrow, wincing. “Don’t worry about me.”

Too late. I’m already scanning his whole body, up and down, before settling once again on his eyebrow. Some guys say they have your back, but this…“Flynn, you’re—you’re going to need stitches.”

“It’ll be fine. Just worry about you. Where does it hurt?”

Sort of everywhere , I think, not daring to say it aloud. Not wanting to worry him when he probably looks worse than I do. There’s something else, too. Something bubbling up. The realization that Flynn read me completely right. He knew exactly what I needed in that moment. He knew how my body would react, how I’d reach out, how we could escape the threat together by moving as one.

“How’d you know about the bomb?” I ask, head pounding. “Or whatever the hell that was? I heard you yell, and I just…”

“Trip wire,” Flynn says, gritting his teeth. His jaw must be killing him. The outline of a swiftly purpling bruise is popping along his bone. “Little hint of it, top corner of the door. Probably the equivalent of a grenade. The blast wasn’t as powerful as it could’ve been—maybe it was old explosive material, denatured—but someone clearly knew the prime minister would be there. I just don’t know how we fucking missed it.” That veneer of calm is shredding. His irises are darkening, almost matching his pupils. “How did we miss it?”

“Her head of security,” I say, swallowing, tasting ash on my tongue. “He isn’t involved, is he?”

Flynn grimaces. “He’s been with her for years, no issues. Not to mention, he’s the one who just got her out of there. Every single member of her team has been vetted to the max, but that doesn’t mean we should rule them out. Sometimes intelligence services don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I’m starting to think…”

“Starting to think what?”

“That maybe this isn’t so simple. Maybe we’ve gotten it wrong.”

Chills rush down my arms. “You mean, like…the crime family paid off someone from her team?” I grip the grab rail tight as we swerve. “Or they hired a different assassin to— Wait, where are we going?”

“Hospital,” Flynn says, cutting to the left, curving around a series of parked Fiats.

“What? For me? No.” I shake my head, even as my neck throbs. “We can’t—we can’t drop the ruse. What if Sofia and I end up at the same hospital? How would we explain that? I’m fine.”

“Your ear’s bleeding.”

“I’m fine ,” I tell him, wiping away the blood with the edge of my sleeve, and—

“Jesus Christ , Max,” he almost shouts, finally losing his cool. Broken syllables. Hands gesticulating off the wheel. I’ve never seen him like this before, heard him like this before, his voice as ragged as the tattered jacket on his back. “You just lived through an explosion, your head’s probably killing you, and I, I’m trying to do my job. I’m trying to keep you alive. I don’t want to see you—fucking—beat up like this, okay? Beyond the fact that we’re trying to avoid an international scandal, and we might have to explain why we let an assassin into an Italian restaurant and why the prime minister has a body double in the first place…You’re not the type of person I’d want to see dead. Not that I want to see anyone dead, I just—” He blows out a quick breath. “I need you to get on the first flight out tonight.”

Part of me expected this, but it still knocks me back. “Drive to the hotel.”

“Hospital first, then embassy, then—”

“ Hotel first,” I grit out, blinking away the chemical sting from my eyelashes. “If you care about my safety, I’m safest there. Half of Sofia’s security is at Hotel Giorgio and I’m guessing the nearest American embassy is in Rome? I’m sure you have some sort of first aid training. You can bandage me up in the suite, but I am not backing down from this.”

Now that the initial shock is wearing off, now that cool air from the blowers is streaming into my face, I’m angry . Someone thinks they can try to kill the world’s youngest female prime minister in a restaurant toilet? They think that’s going to be the end of her historic career? Maybe I should listen to Flynn, look up flights on my CIA phone right now, find the fastest way out of Italy.

But honestly? Screw that. Screw whoever just tried to assassinate her.

I’m not abandoning this mission. There’re only four days left. I can survive for four days. Now that I’ve seen firsthand— felt firsthand—that someone wants Sofia dead, there’s no way in hell that I’m walking away.

Flynn swallows, hard, and I follow the movement all the way down his throat. He doesn’t look like he’s given up trying to convince me to leave, but—“There’s an extra jacket in the back,” he says, jerking his head toward the rear seats. “Change before the hotel.”

“Can’t we sneak in through the private entrance?” I ask, shedding the marred jacket and throwing on a fresh one. It smells of lavender, like the hotel room, and that softness—that bit of comfort—throws me even more. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the night.

“We will,” he says, changing his own shirt and jacket—fast—at a stoplight. There’s a flash of tan skin, a trail of cologne unleashed: sandalwood, sea. He’s biting back pain in the hard set of his jaw, and I fight every instinct I have to place my hand on his shoulder. “The private entrance goes through the kitchen.”

Flynn can barely look at me as he pulls up to the hotel, past the gates, where some of the paparazzi have waned. A camera flashes along the side of the Range Rover, and I flinch, schooling my face back to neutral as we stalk out of the car, my security shielding me on all sides, even thicker now. At least six bomb-sniffing dogs are patrolling the grounds. Police are doing loops through the garden, speedy Italian flying through their walkie-talkies.

And I think I’ve had enough for a single day.

CIA safe house in the morning; random Roderick and random roommate surprises by midday; assassination attempt by dark. The sky is purpling like the bruise on Flynn’s jawline.

Security clears the hotel staff from the kitchen, and we pass by empty workstations, knives at a standstill, microgreens waiting to be plated and cut, and this should be my happy place. My soothing place. The kitchen, with its stainless steel and bright surfaces, its cooking smells baked deep, deep in, but I’m already shivering, the whole night hitting me in waves. Goose bumps prickle along my arms, rush up the backs of my thighs. I just want to get back up to the room, check on Calvin’s status, and then slip under the duvet. Under the duvet, no one can hurt you. No monsters, no assassins. That’s a fact.

Flynn’s right, though. How did someone know that Sofia was going to be there, at the restaurant? Did her head of security tip them off? Is he capable of that? How did her special protection group miss the equivalent of a grenade ?

It’s a solemn elevator ride to the top floor, calm music chiming through the speakers, and then Flynn and I are bursting into the suite. “On the dining room table,” he tells me, pointing toward the center of the room, and at first, I don’t catch his drift. I think there are Band-Aids on the dining room table, gauze on the table, but he gives me another verbal nudge. “ Max , get on the table.”

He’s in triage mode, his voice throaty and rough. For the moment, all the breeziness has left him, like he’s taking on my pain. Because I am in pain, now that I’m safe and allowed to feel it. My face is tender; the side of my neck aches piercingly; and my shoulder blade is definitely throbbing more than a shoulder blade should. Aftershocks of adrenaline coursing through me, I scoot backward onto the table, shrugging off my jacket by the bouquet of still-blooming flowers, and Flynn strides forward, first aid kit in his hands. Where’d he get that from? His suitcase? He sets it down by my thigh, riffling through it; I can feel the tension wafting off him like cologne.

“Flynn,” I say, throat tight, unsure how to finish. Do I tell him it’ll be all right? Will it? My mind flashes to Sofia, stumbling from the smoke, and the image makes my throat clamp down even more.

“Here,” he says, gazing at my neck through hooded eyes. “Sorry if this hurts for a second.” He presses a cotton pad, full of something sharp and stinging, against the space under my ear—and Yep, yep, that is excruciating . On instinct, one of my hands reaches out to steady myself, grabbing on to the hard plane of Flynn’s shoulder. Like mine, the tempo of his heart is fast, fast, fast; it’s pulsing through his whole body. He grunts a little when I touch him, but when I start to pull back, my touch lightening, he says, “No, it’s okay. Keep your hand there if you need it.”

I do need it. That is what I need.

He makes quick work of my neck, wiping it clean, and despite the fact that this is awful —truly, terrifyingly awful—a part of me leans even farther into him. I wouldn’t mind if he placed a supportive hand on my knee, if his hands glided over the curve of my collarbone, just to check if I’m all right.

“Your turn,” I say when he’s finished, glancing at the nick in his eyebrow.

“It’ll heal on its own,” he says, almost back to calm again. “I told you not to worry about—”

I grab him lightly by the hips and drag him forward, between my knees. “Hold still.” Tenderly, I press a finger to his eyebrow, around where the gash is, assessing just how deep it goes. It isn’t as bad as it looks, but it’ll need a butterfly suture. I’ve bandaged myself up in the kitchen enough times to know.

After a moment of surprise, Flynn accepts my touch, angling forward and pressing his palms flat against the table, on opposite sides of me. The heat from his fingertips brushes against my thighs.

“Almost done,” I say, fighting the thrum in my ears. One of them is much worse than the other, like I’ve just swum in Sebago Lake and everything’s muffled. I comb through the kit, finding the antibiotic ointment. Flynn barely winces as I apply a bit of Neosporin, blowing on the cut like my grandmother used to do with me, and—yes, I did just blow on my CIA handler’s face. Shouldn’t have done that. Wasn’t medically necessary.

My lips hover over the crest of his head, his hands on either side of me, and it would be so easy . Bridging the rest of the space between us. Despite all the chaos, in the quiet moments, when I listen, there’s that old energy. The hum and the spark. I’m not the only one who’s feeling it, am I?

Am I?

Flynn’s tense—because of course he is—but in the last few seconds, it’s become a new kind of tension. He’s holding back like he wants to spring forward. Both of us are practically motionless, just breathing, linking our breath, and I don’t want to break it. Don’t want to snap away from this brief period in time, where I’m safe and thrumming and alive, with him.

When the pressure becomes so great, my body can’t take it anymore, I give in a little, closing the gap and pressing my lips, featherlight, against his forehead. It’s barely even a touch, so soft that I wonder if he even feels it. My hand travels to the sides of his face, the tips of my knuckles grazing the stubble of his jaw, like running my fingers over sand, and he responds with the gentlest touch of his own, a single finger tracing the outer length of my thigh. It’s too light, too good, and the urge is strong enough that I finally let myself admit it: I want to kiss my handler. Not just on the forehead, not like I’m saying good night, tucking him in after he’s fallen asleep on the couch. I want to thread my hands through the silk of his hair; I want to tip his chin up as he traces the edges of me, let his lips capture mine, feel the weight of his tongue in my mouth.

The problem is, that’s so dangerous. That’s the last thing I should be looking for, the opportunity for him to hurt me again. Especially tonight, when so much else is on the line.

I wait to see if he’ll say something. Anything else. A window into what he’s thinking. “You aren’t trained for this level of action,” he finally whispers, which isn’t what I expected. He’s almost shivering as he says it.

And I’m torn, suddenly, my own voice just as shivery. “You don’t think I can do this?”

“I think you can do anything,” he says, staying put, inches from my face. “But it’s not about you. I mean, it is, just not in that way. I undersold this mission. To myself and to you. You’re not just lounging on the beach. We’re past that. We were past that by noon. Which means you should have a choice, again. Five million dollars is a shit ton of money, I get that, it’s life-changing. But that only matters if you have a life, Max.”

The sadness in his gaze is palpable. It carves into me. I’m not sure how it’s possible to maintain eye contact with someone this close, for this long, and not burst into flames.

“Hold still,” I tell him again, so quiet that the words almost dissolve in the air. When I stick on the butterfly bandage, he looks good as new. Well, almost good as new. His hair’s ruffled, his beard scruffier than even this morning. My teeth skim over my bottom lip. “Don’t you do this all the time?”

His words are like a caress on my cheekbone. “Do what all the time?”

“Dangerous missions.” If he’s experienced enough to work on an assignment like this, then he’s trained for unexpected attacks, tricky interchanges, and assets who might not always be 100 percent up to the job. “I’m guessing I’m not your first asset who’s found themselves in a tough spot.”

He sighs, like he can see where I’m going with this. “No, you’re not.”

“And I’m guessing that you didn’t urge them to walk away. So what’s different here?”

The question hangs heavy in the air.

Am I what’s different here, Flynn?

When he takes too long to answer, when the silence grows too weighted between us, I press him further. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t ,” he chokes out, finally taking a small step back. “That’s the thing, I can’t. I’m terrified to say the wrong thing. I’ve been walking this…this line . Trying to make things comfortable for you, while also trying to make you reconsider the role you’re playing here. If I don’t walk it just right, if someone from the agency thinks I’m no longer the right fit for this mission, they’ll send another handler, maybe someone who’s not as good at their job—and I won’t be able to protect you. To get you home safely.”

I blink at him in the half-dark of the suite, processing. My chest is rising up and down in a trembling beat. “I thought you said that you didn’t request to be my handler? That the CIA basically threw us together because we had ‘some history’?”

Flynn wipes a hand over the back of his neck. “The truth is, they wanted me to recruit you because of our history together. They wanted me to show up at your work instead of Gail and give you that pitch before the wedding. I absolutely fucking refused. When you formally attached yourself to the mission, that’s when I stepped in. Put in the request to handle you. It had to be me. It couldn’t be anyone else but me, and I—”

The ringing of his phone cuts him off. Terrible, terrible timing. A hard lump lodges in my throat. And you what? The sexual tension between us is so pressurized, you could burst it with a pin.

“I have to take this,” he says roughly, like he’s dragging his voice through gravel. I notice another small cut on his hand when he steps even farther back, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.

My throat burns as I swallow. “Okay, yeah, of course.”

I slip down from the table, wringing my hands, and wander around the hotel room. Back and forth. Zigzagging nervously. Is he getting an update on Sofia? Has anyone from her family been notified? Her brother? Who would’ve notified my family, if tonight had turned out differently?

I stumble toward my own cell phone—my American one, which has been powering up for hours, after Flynn offered a charger—and press the cracked screen. Curved bars at the top tell me that it’s still connected to the hotel Wi-Fi, and the screen shows two new text messages from my dad: One’s about making a big pot of summer-bean chili for supper, and the other’s a blurry photo of my mom holding up a handmade cardigan. She’s probably crocheted it herself with all her leftover yarn. It’s bright yellow, objectively hideous, and—I’m not sure how this is possible—it makes me love her even more.

If I’d been inside that powder room, all my parents would’ve had left of me is that under-the-pillow note (if a turtle hasn’t munched on it by now).

I’m so sorry we haven’t talked in a while, I finally text my dad. It’s a long story, but I’m traveling for a little bit, and I’ll be back next week. Hope you and mom are doing okay. That sweater’s a pretty color. Love you.

Falling back on the bed with a wrecked sigh, I let my body sink into the mattress, mind churning. Is it possible that the Producer made it to Italy, that he orchestrated the explosion tonight? Then again, if he used to produce results , is it likely that he’s missed twice in a row? Flynn keeps saying that the CIA doesn’t always get it right. I’m thinking he’s speaking from experience?

“That’s right,” Flynn says, seriously, on the phone. “Correct.”

I’m catching only snippets, but the breather is giving me space to think. Process how much things have shifted. How much I’ve shifted. Can’t I be more than just a sitting duck? I know the key players of this operation, and I’m motivated. Why can’t I help take down the people who did this to us, to Sofia, in whatever way I can?

I start running through everyone who was there tonight. Her head of security, Lars, other security personnel. Who did the original sweep of the premises?

“We’re pulling footage from in and around the restaurant,” Flynn tells me between calls, pacing by the couch. He explains how the CIA will contain the news—how they’ll say it was a gas explosion, and that I was never there. Sofia was never there. Anyone who saw differently is mistaken. There’s no update on her yet, but the footage should help narrow down the culprit. Someone must’ve slipped in—somehow—after security swept the place. “My gut’s telling me that the Halverson family didn’t pay off anyone from Sofia’s side. We’ve pulled all the incoming financial transactions, from every member of her team—nothing. Hold on, got another call coming in.”

My American phone beeps, too, and I shoot up in bed, thinking it’s my dad.

It’s not. It’s Calvin. His messages are dated up to forty-eight hours ago, only trickling in now. Why? Did he cheap out on his phone service like he economizes on pizza?

Do you want a slice of pizza?

U R not in your room.

I’m leaving the pizza outside your door.

U didn’t eat the pizza outside your door.

The pizza outside your door is getting stale.

When Flynn gets off his final call, his phone starts pinging with texts, and he takes a second to read the messages, hand over his mouth.

Automatically, adrenaline floods me again. “What’s wrong?”

Flynn gazes at me with profound disbelief, then lets out a strained, singular chuckle. “Calvin. It’s all true. He really did win the Maine State Lottery, and he really did come to Liam Neeson you.”

My body can’t seem to decide if I want to smile, laugh, or cry a little. It settles on a fun mixture of all three. “At least that’s something.”

“I don’t want to know why he had eight bottles of ranch dressing in his suitcase, or how he thought that was going to help his rescue mission, but he’s on a chartered flight out of Rome in less than two hours.”

“He can pick up a souvenir at the airport,” I add, patently avoiding the ranch dressing, fighting to tamp down the post-panic rush. “?‘I traveled all the way to Italy to rescue my roommate from an abduction scheme, then got trapped in a hotel conference room, and all I got was this T-shirt.’?”

Flynn plops down on the couch, his whole body sagging into the cushions. He looks impossibly awake and exhausted at the same time, and honestly? I just want to give him a hug. “It’s going to have to be extremely small print. That’s a lot to fit on your standard-size tee.”

“Maybe it’s shorter in Italian,” I say with a wince, reaching over to see if my phone will dial out. FaceTime works over the Wi-Fi, but no luck, Calvin isn’t answering. I dash off a text, wondering if he’ll receive it: I know we have tons to talk about when we get home, but…thank you. “I’m not imagining it, right? This day was weird and horrific even by CIA standards?”

“Definitely one for the books.” Flynn shrugs off his second jacket of the day, hanging it over the armrest on the couch, and his words echo alongside the ringing in my ears . It couldn’t be anyone else but me, and I— “I really could get you out of Italy tonight.”

“Let’s wait for the footage from the restaurant,” I say, stalling. This could almost be over. I have a purpose, after months of feeling so, so lost, and I’m not abandoning my post until it’s done. “Things could look different in the morning.”

Readjusting his position, Flynn, with a muffled groan, lies back on the couch. He grabs his ribs in a way that makes mine ache. “Max, will you just consider—”

“ Pesto ,” I say, firm, wishing we’d picked a more serious-sounding code word. “I’m staying.” No way am I running back to America with my tail between my legs at the first sign of trouble. Yeah, it was a big sign of trouble—explosive, you might call it—but I haven’t felt like a survivor in a long time. I do now, a little. I am.

Cutting off any further opportunity for argument, avoiding Flynn’s glance, I get out of bed and thumb through the dresser for a pair of satin pajamas. In the bathroom, I change quickly out of the pantsuit, noting the bruise on my cheek in the mirror, before brushing my teeth as gently as I can, practicing Sofia’s accent under my breath. Flicking off the light on my nightstand, I climb under the sheets.

That’s it. End of the night.

Only, an hour later, I’m still wide awake. Part of it’s the stress of the last forty-eight hours, the smell of smoke tangled in my hair, the weight of Flynn’s fingers as he bandaged me up, but it’s also the atmosphere. Summers in Maine, whenever I lie awake at night, the loudest sound is my own breath—maybe the trill of cicadas, maybe the bay. Here, it’s a restless kind of quiet. This seaside city is only ever half-asleep.

Don’t say anything to him. Just lie here. Just keep your mouth shut.

“Flynn?” I whisper into the almost-dark.

“Yeah?” comes his voice immediately.

“Can’t sleep?”

“You pesto -ed me.” Flynn lets out a slow breath. “I can’t believe you pesto -ed me.”

“We need a new code word,” I tell him. “That just makes it sound like I covered you in basil sauce.”

Flynn snorts.

I fiddle with the sheets under my fingers. “I’m tired, but…I always open the windows at home. I like falling asleep to the sound of the water.” Why’d I just tell him that? Why am I breaking my own rules? No talking after your head hits the pillow .

“Me, too,” he admits. “Best way to drift off. Maine ruined me for city noises. I don’t think this counts as reminiscing, but—Lobster in the Rough? Still the best job I’ve ever had.”

I ask the first question that comes to mind. “How’d you end up working at the CIA, anyway?”

“I went to Boston College because of their sailing team,” he says, quiet. “Got a scholarship. A recruiter contacted me during my junior year.”

“Park bench?”

“Job fair,” he says.

“Ah, so a little less James Bond than I’m imagining.”

“Just a little. Basically, the recruiter said that I could ‘see the world’ with the CIA, and I was an idiot kid who didn’t realize how much they tailored their pitch to exactly what I wanted to hear. They must’ve read me from a mile away. I wanted to travel; they told me I could travel.”

A hint of discontent bleeds through his voice. Does Flynn even like this job? “And have you? Seen the world?”

“I spent half of last year riding a desk in Milwaukee.”

“The Paris of the Midwest,” I say. “City of lights.”

“City of lights, parking tickets, and the world’s largest dinosaur head. Big draw for the tourists.” The moon glows silver through tiny gaps in the curtains. I see Flynn half-heartedly plump the stiff little pillow under his head, roll over onto his side, and gaze at me from across the room. His phone’s clutched in the palm of his hand, ready for any updates. “I have been to some cool places. Parts of the Middle East and Africa. All across Europe. Never been to Summerland, though.”

“I’d really like to visit one day. See where my family’s from.”

“Then you should.” When he falls silent for a second, I know he’s revving up again. Go back to America, Max. Forget about the money, forget about Sofia, save yourself.

I swerve in another direction. “What’s your dream vacation?”

He shifts his head against the pillow. “You first. What’s your dream vacation?”

“Oh, this,” I deadpan, pulling the sheets to my chin. “If anything, I wish there were more assassins.”

Flynn snorts again. “You better give me a straight answer. Otherwise…” He pauses, and I can almost see the (semipainful) arch of his eyebrows. “Otherwise, I’ll tell Giorgio that you hate gelato. No more gelato will be brought to this suite.”

My mouth drops open in a faux gape. That pistachio gelato from earlier? I wasn’t even hungry and I had three scoops. “You wouldn’t.”

“These are my negotiating tactics, honed from years of service.”

“Wow, the CIA knows how to go for the jugular.” I run my teeth over my bottom lip, thinking. Although, to be honest, I don’t have to think about it too hard—the answer’s already there. “My parents and I, with my nana Frida, we took a road trip when I was a kid. All the way down the coast, from Maine to Florida and back up again, stopping at as many pie places as Nana could find.”

“Sweet or savory?” he asks, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. He says it with such a serious tone that—despite this historically shit day, and the ache in my entire body—my chest feels a touch lighter.

“Nana Frida was a wild-blueberry pie aficionado. So, mostly sweet. Some savory. Actually, her favorite from the trip was crawfish pie, in South Carolina. She found it at this gas station, and every one of us was like Absolutely do not eat that pie . She didn’t even have a fork. But she was so stubborn that she ate it with her hands, in the back seat of my parents’ station wagon. And that’s my dream vacation.”

“Eating fish pie with your hands in a station wagon,” Flynn repeats, nonjudgmental.

“Being spontaneous,” I say to the ceiling. “Searching for good food in unlikely places. Just…being with my family.”

I really, really miss my family. Maybe, especially, Nana Frida. Breast cancer got her when I was fourteen, a long time ago, but the loss still feels fresh. When I had my restaurant, people assumed that my authority over a room came from the cooking world. Actually, it came from Nana. My grandmother wielded her wit like a rolling pin; she could flatten just about anybody with it. She was no more than five foot three, standing on a step stool, but in pictures your eyes go right to her. She could command a photo like she commanded a kitchen. Most of the time, I think about how disappointed she’d be—that I turned out to be her heir. I tried to elevate her legacy, her memory, and instead took it right down to the ground.

I kind of had this dream of passing my restaurant down to my future kids. Keeping it in the family and having all of us work there together one day. In my mind, I was seeing all of these family dinners, sitting down with everyone who worked at the restaurant, becoming this big, unbreakable unit. It was about the food, but it was also about building community.

I pause before I tell Flynn too much. “You answer now. Ideal vacation?”

“This is awkward,” he says, “but mine is eating fish pie in the back of a station wagon.”

I want to fully shove him off the couch, in a nonaggressive way. “ Flynn. Don’t be an asshole.”

His quiet laugh filters into the air before he’s pensive again. “Seriously, though, mine is similar to yours. My dad and I took this vacation right before he passed. Road trip.”

He…passed away? When? How? “I’m sorry,” I say, almost whispering, remembering what Flynn said about the farmers’ market and the rhu-BARB preserves. Remembering how his dad gently teased us as we held hands in the back seat of his car. “I didn’t know.”

“How would you?” he says quickly, like he’s fighting an emotion in his throat. “But thanks. We went from New Hampshire all the way to the other coast—California. He wanted to see the sequoias. Said he could die happy if he saw them.” By the end, his voice has trailed off, but he picks it up again. “I didn’t take any pictures. That’s a big regret of mine. I didn’t want to take any pictures, because I didn’t want to remember him sick. But now, I think I’d give just about anything for a photo of him staring up at those trees.”

It is so unexpectedly tender that my eyes mist, and it’s not just an aftereffect of the smoke from the blast. It isn’t the pain in my shoulder or the way my ears are throbbing. I get ahold of myself before I’m way too vulnerable with him. “I was thinking you were going to say Las Vegas or something.”

He chuckles dryly under his breath. “What about me screams Las Vegas to you?”

“Everyone likes a good magic show, with the…hoops and the…sparklers, and the…”

“You’ve never actually seen a magic show, have you?”

“No, never.”

“One day, then, Max, I hope you get your station-wagon-fish-pie-magic trip.”

“That sounds like I would have to be incredibly high. Calvin-level high.” I pause, admitting, “I’ve only been high once in my life. I might’ve…I might’ve told you this, but my dad kind of put the fear of god into me about substance abuse—lots of fishermen are part of the opioid crisis—anyway, it was a pot brownie and I ended up glued to a twelve-hour marathon of I Love Lucy , thinking that Lucy was going to pop out of the TV and try to kill me.”

“Loo-cy,” he says in Ricky’s voice. “Loo-cy, no!”

“I would describe it as traumatizing,” I say, curving my hand under my cheek and scrunching up further into a ball. I trace his outline across the room, long frame scrunched onto the couch. Maybe it’s the Italian influence, but the first thought I have is: He reminds me of a tipped-over Michelangelo sculpture, perfectly carved. I’m still not sure if I can close my eyes again. I’m not sure what’ll happen if I stop talking to him, if I roll over again, if I don’t hold on to Flynn’s voice in the dark.

“Good night, Max,” he says after I’m silent long enough, his voice like a kiss on the forehead.

“Good night, Flynn.”

I drift off to the sound of his breathing, steady in the warmth of the room, and hope that tomorrow, no one tries to kill me.