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I point at the scan. “The museum built the Love Stone exhibit from older records. If these symbols were copied into the exhibit before anyone forgot what they meant, the archive might still have the original sketches, labels, or route drawings.”

“And Vines records,” Ezra says.

“Exactly. I want to know whether the open and closed marks show up anywhere else, and whether anyone recorded what they were for. Maybe Vines will be connected?”

Theo grumbles an objection.

I grab his knee under the table. “Not tonight.”

His shoulders lower by a fraction.

“Tomorrow or the day after. We look for three things: older versions of these symbols, anything explaining what open and closed meant, and any Vines records tied to the routes.”

Ezra sits up straighter, some of his old spark returning. “Give me scans, and I can compare the line weights. Carvers have habits.”

“Smart,” I say.

He points at me. “Does this mean I get promoted?”

Theo huffs, the closest thing to laughter he has given us since the spring. The sound loosens the room.

I kiss Ezra. It starts soft, a reassurance more than heat, but he catches the back of my neck and holds me there for a second longer. His mouth is cool and familiar. When I pull away, Theo is watching us with that raw, open look he gets when love makes him feel both stronger and easier to wound.

I kiss Theo too. His hand cups my face. He lets me set the pressure, so I explore him slowly. When I draw back, he presses his forehead to mine.

“Fear didn’t get the final say today,” I whisper.

His breath brushes my mouth. “I still hate it.”

Ezra slips one arm around my waist and rests his other hand on Theo’s shoulder. For a few minutes, the three of us stay folded together at the kitchen table, surrounded by cooling tea, camera ghosts, and the smell of grilled cheese.

Eventually, I turn back to the photo.

The chalk curve behind my photographed hand matches the route stone’s open line. I pull the Love Stone scan beside it and angle both under the kitchen light. The old museum label calls the similar curve “decorative flourish.”

But the same shape appears in the route stone and in the spring photograph, both connected to moving water. That makes “decorative” feel less like an explanation and more like something the town decided after it forgot the original meaning. If the archive shows the symbol used the same way in older records, we’ll have proof.

Sweetheart Haven preserved more truth than it understood, which means the wrong story may still carry the landscape of the right one.

Chapter 20

Ezra Heron

By nightfall, the house smells like Pepper. Rosemary and vanilla cling to the hallway, the laundry basket, the blanket she dragged from the downstairs sofa, and the mug of tea she abandoned beside our bed while rearranging pillows with the focus of an omega nesting. She is building comfort as if it can be measured, reinforced, trusted.

I watch from the doorway with a towel around my shoulders and my hair still damp from the shower. Pepper has changed into soft shorts and one of Theo’s shirts. It hangs off one shoulder and swallows her hands when she reaches across the bed.

Quilts are layered across the mattress. My sketchbook sits on the nightstand beside Theo’s phone, which shows the camera feeds. A plate of crackers, sliced apples, and little squares of cheese waits beside three glasses of water. Theo’s gray blanket is folded at the foot of the bed, close enough for his scent to settle over everything without smothering hers.

Pepper turns, sees me, and her face does that careful thing again. It’s like she wants to rush me but is afraid. “You can join us, or you can stand there and look mysterious. Both are valid choices.”

“I was going for hauntingly sexy.”

“It’s working.”

Theo comes up behind me, warm from his own shower. He doesn’t touch me right away. I appreciate that more than I want to admit.

“You eat yet?” he asks.