Page 69 of Hollow

Lighthouse. Meet us.

I send it before I can second-guess myself. No explanation. He’ll know which one. He has to.

Briar looks over, noticing something’s up. “Who was that?”

“Flint,” I say, focusing on the winding road. My tires hum on the wet road. “He needs to be there.”

She doesn’t argue, merely nods slowly, looking out the window, toward the rough sea coming into view. Maybe she understands. Or maybe she’s just getting ready for whatever comes next. I know I am.

The drive takes twenty minutes, going up along the cliffs. The rain stops, replaced by wind that throws sea spray against the windshield. Below us, the ocean is dark gray, waves crashing against sharp black rocks, shooting white foam high into the air.

It’s violent and beautiful, like nothing else matters.

The lighthouse appears through the mist, sitting on the furthest point of the headland. It’s old, built from rough stone battered by centuries of salt and storms. Its white paint is peeling, stained with rust where the iron railings have bled onto the stone. It’s not pretty; it’s stark, defiant, standing alone against the vast, indifferent ocean.

Flint and I used to come here… back when we thought we could handle anything together. We’d climb the spiral stairs, watch storms roll in, feel the foghorn shake our bones. It was our place, away from the world, until it wasn’t. Until we became the storm.

I park the car near the stone wall that keeps people from falling off the cliff edge. The wind pulls at the door as I open it, bringing the cries of gulls and the deep, steady rumble of the waves below.

“Why here?” Briar asks, pulling her coat tighter around her as she steps out, her hair flying around her face.

“Because…” I look up at the tower. “Because some things need the light.” Maybe the edge of the island is the only place we can have this conversation.

The first bit of sun breaks through the heavy clouds, making streaks of pale gold across the gray water. The light hits the wet stone of the lighthouse, making it look like it’s glowing. It’s kind of beautiful in a way that feels like it won’t last, like it could be swallowed by the sea at any moment.

I lead her toward the heavy wooden door at the base of the tower. It’s unlocked, as always. Inside, it’s cold and damp, smelling of salt and dust and old memories. A narrow, spiraling staircase winds upward into the darkness.

“He and I…” I need to say it, need her to understand why Flint has to be here, too. “We used to come here. A long time ago.”

Her eyes meet mine, full of questions I don’t know how to answer. Everything feels heavy in the confined space. We stand there, listening to crashing waves and everything we’re not saying, waiting. Another engine approaches, growing louder as it climbs the cliff road. Flint. He’s coming.

The engine cuts off outside. Heavy footsteps crunch on the gravel path. The old wooden door groans open, slamming back against the stone wall with a force that echoes up the stairwell.

Flint stands silhouetted against the pale morning light flooding in. He locks gazes with me first, then Briar standing beside me, and something dangerous ignites in his stare.

“What the fuck is this, Damiano?” Everything about his question is tight with fury. “Bringing her here?” He stalks toward us, closing the distance in three angry strides. “This was ours.” The words are bitten off, sharp edges aimed right at me.

“Flint—” Briar starts, but he ignores her, his focus locked on me.

“You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “You don’t get to drag her into... into this place.”

He’s close now, radiating heat and violence. I see the punch coming in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. But instead, he shoves me, hard. My back hits the cold, curved stone wall, the impact jarring through me. I brace myself, expecting the next blow, the familiar explosion of fists and fury that always follows.

But I don’t move.

I merely look at him, at the raw anger twisting his features, and feel... nothing.

No fire to meet his. Just a deep, hollow exhaustion.

I don’t raise my hands. I don’t push back. I stare at him, letting the moment hang there.

The fight drains out of Flint as he registers my lack of response. His chest is still heaving, fists clenched, but the killing intent in his eyes dims, replaced by a glimmer of confusion, then something else.

Hurt.

He sees it—the fight’s gone out of me. We’ve shattered this thing between us maybe one too many times.

“I’m done fighting, Flint.” My declaration is quiet but steady in the enclosed space. “With you. About this. About any of it.”

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