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My stomach dips. Theo stands close at my back, not touching until I reach for him. His palm opens beside mine.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.” I take his hand. “Just loud.”

Tourists are taking pictures near the restored display, the heart-shaped donation box, the little cards promising that Sweetheart Haven’s old love story is alive again.

His thumb moves once over my knuckles. “We don’t have to stay.”

“We do.”

A woman near the desk glances at our joined hands, then at my neck. Her nostrils flare just enough for me to notice. Local teacher turned late-bloom omega has shacked up with the cemetery alpha. Sweetheart Haven will have fed itself three versions of that by lunch.

Theo’s scent deepens.

I squeeze his hand. “I’m good.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your scent did.”

His eyes cut to me.

I smile. “Field observation.”

The museum aide, a beta in a pink cardigan with a badge that says Marcy, hurries over when I give my name. “Sheriff Tom said you might stop by. I’ve left the archive room unlocked for you. You can review the exhibit folders, but nothing leaves the building.”

“Photos?”

“No flash.”

“Perfect.”

She leads us past the Love Stone case. The carved gator tooth rests beneath glass on dark velvet, smaller than the town’s posters make it look. The corrected plaque from Scarlet’s work sits beside the old romantic copy. Even corrected, the display still feels like it wants the truth to be pretty.

Theo pauses beside the case. “You okay?”

I study the curve along the lower edge of the carving. The museum label calls it a decorative flourish. Last night, the same shape opened behind my photographed hand at the spring.

“It isn’t decoration,” I say.

“No,” Theo answers, quiet and certain. “You guys are right. It isn’t.”

The archive room sits behind the staff hallway, cramped and cool, with two metal tables and rows of labeled boxes. Marcy leaves us with cotton gloves, a scanner, and a warning about humidity controls.

Theo pulls out my chair before I can sit. I look at him.

“What?”

“Expedition daddy has entered the archive.”

His mouth twitches. “You brought three pens and two granola bars.”

“Prepared women deserve to have daddies too.”

“Sit, little rabbit, before I decide the table is good for something else and ruin your records.”

Heat flashes through me and words fail. I sit, mostly because his tone makes my omega deeply agreeable.