Page 82 of Hollow

Damiano points out plants growing wild between the graves, explaining their medicinal properties. Flint tells stories about island legends, ghosts that supposedly haunt the older sections. I soak in their voices, their knowledge, their presence.

We stop before a massive oak, its branches creating a natural canopy over a small section of graves.

“This is my favorite spot,” Damiano says. “The tree’s probably older than any of the stones.”

“It’s seen some shit,” Flint agrees, running his hand along the rough bark.

“Like us,” I say softly.

They both look at me, understanding in their eyes.

“Yeah,” Flint says. “Like us.”

Damiano tugs me closer, his arm slipping around my waist. Flint moves to my other side, mirroring the gesture. Standing between them, I feel anchored in a way I never have before.

“So this is what normal feels like,” I muse.

Flint snorts. “Hate to break it to you, but three people making out in a graveyard isn’t most people’s definition of normal.”

“Making out?” I raise an eyebrow. “Getting ahead of yourself, Bishop.”

“Am I?” His eyes darken with challenge and promise.

Damiano’s laugh rumbles through his chest against my back. “He’s always been impatient.”

“Some things are worth rushing for,” Flint counters, his gaze never leaving mine.

I look from one to the other, these beautiful, broken men who’ve somehow become mine. “And some things are worth savoring.”

The sun is starting to sink lower, casting long shadows across the graves. We should head back soon, before darkness makes the uneven ground treacherous, but I’m reluctant to leave this moment, this perfect bubble where nothing exists except the three of us.

“We should come back,” I say. “Make it a tradition.”

“A cemetery date tradition?” Flint asks, but he’s smiling.

“Why not?” I shrug. “Most couples have ‘their restaurant’ or ‘their beach.’ We can have ‘our graveyard.’”

“Most couples aren’t hiding a body either,” Damiano says quietly.

The reminder should chill me, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s just another thread in the tapestry that binds us together—dark, yes, but no less real than the feelings growing between us.

“All the more reason to embrace the unconventional,” I say.

Flint seeks my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. “I’m in.”

“Me, too,” Damiano agrees, his other hand settling on Flint’s shoulder, completing our circle.

As we stand there, connected, I realize that maybe this is what I’ve been searching for all along—not safety or certainty, but this. Belonging. Understanding. Acceptance of all my broken pieces, matched with theirs to create something whole.

The light fades, but we remain, three shadows becoming one in the gathering dusk.

Maybe we’re damned.

Maybe we’re saved.

Maybe we’re just three people finding our way through the darknesstogether.

Whatever we are, in this moment, it feels like enough.

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