“Correction, he has arrived,” says a new voice from beside our table. “I was impressed when Amelia messaged that you were here. Only locals are supposed to know about this spot.”

I look up to find Anwar standing there, all six feet of his chiseled self. He looks like a curated social post come to life, wearing a linen button-down, dark jeans, and a jade-gemmed ring. Seeing him in the flesh, I could physically die, just cease respiration and float out of my body into the cloudless heavens.

“That’s all thanks to Cleo,” I say by some miracle. “She’s a sniper with a search bar.”

Introductions are made. Laughs are shared. Anwar and I are given leave. Not too long, Chase reminds. Just enough time for a stroll around the village.

I know all of this happens, but it feels like I watch it from a place hanging somewhere above my head. I don’t sink fully back down into my body until Anwar and I settle on a park bench. It faces a lily pond, one with a white walking bridge stretched over its blue surface. We each hold a paper tray of some jelly-topped pancake-donut things called aebleskiver, an authentic Dutch dessert Anwar insisted I try. But eating again is the last thing on my mind.

Anwar is just so goddess-damned gorgeous. Despite my best efforts, only one thought keeps repeating in my head: Why on earth is he potentially interested in me?

“I have a somewhat radical proposition,” Anwar says, wiping powdered sugar off his lips. Radical proposals of my own race through my mind.

“It’s been an unusual couple of days,” I answer. “Try me.”

“Why don’t we skip the whole awkward small talk thing and skip right to the fun stuff? A lightning round, three questions each, which we have to answer on instinct. No long pauses allowed.”

“Sounds dangerous,” I say. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Anwar then turns to me, his eyes two amber pools. “I’ll start. I’ll even go easy on you. What’s your favorite scary show or movie?”

“There is nothing easy about that question.”

“First instinct. No thinking. Go.”

“The Haunting of Hill House. Close second would be The Birds.”

“Amelia Piccolo, I did not take you for a cheater. One answer only.”

“Okay, fine,” I say, angling myself toward Anwar. “Then here’s my first question. If not a cheater, then what kind of girl do you take me for?”

Anwar grins. “The best kind: lionhearted and unabridged.”

It’s my turn to grin.

“Wow, does the brooding poet thing always work for you?”

“Usually,” Anwar answers. “That’s two questions, for the record. My turn. What keeps you up at night?”

Another impossible question because, really, what doesn’t?

“The thought of losing people I love,” I answer on instinct, as instructed. “Or the thought of love lost in general.”