𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑺𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑾𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑺 /𝑗𝑗 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑘

𝟎𝟐𝟐.

___________________
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑺
𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑤𝑜，𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑑𝑒 𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝟏𝟐:𝟒𝟓 — 𝟐𝟑:𝟎𝟕
___________________

I'VE BEEN SITTING on the grimy ground for what feels like an eternity, twenty minutes maybe, just watching JJ as he methodically covers up the casket.

The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air, and I can see the tension in his muscles as he works. He took off his jacket a little while ago, tossing it in my direction with a gesture that felt almost casual, despite the enormity of what we were doing. I can't help but notice how the sun glints off his strong biceps—each flex and movement showcasing the strength that I've often admired.

Sweat beads on his forehead, and he brushes it away with the back of his hand, that small action somehow making him seem even more rugged. God, how am I supposed to focus when my boyfriend looks like this?

Behind us, I hear the familiar hum of the Twinkie as John B drives it closer. The crunch of gravel under his tires fades into the background as he parks and joins us on the ground, settling down with an air of resignation that matches my own.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, JJ gasps, visibly relieved as he finishes piling dirt over the casket. He takes a moment to pat the ground one last time with the shovel—his way of saying goodbye, I guess—before leaning the tool against our car. The whole scene feels surreal, like we're caught in a moment that we'll replay in our memories over and over.

"I just don't get it," Pope blurts out, his voice breaking the heavy silence that has draped itself over us like a shroud. "I mean, you guys saw the map. He hides his gold so no one finds it for 170 years...!" The frustration in his voice is palpable; it resonates with the confusion swirling inside my own head.

JJ stretches out his hand, wordlessly asking for his jacket back. I pass it to him, feeling the fabric brush against my fingers, and he pulls it on with a casual grace. There's a flicker of annoyance in his expression as he bites the inside of his cheek, listening intently to Pope ramble about the significance of the cross. It's strange how he stands so close to me—I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the intensity of his gaze resting upon me.

The rest of the group sits in almost complete silence now, caught in their thoughts while Pope desperately tries to make sense of everything. Their lack of words makes the air stiff and heavy, and I can tell they're starting to question whether the cross, the treasure, and everything we've risked for it even exists at all. It's a sobering thought that prickles at the edges of my mind, mingling with the weight of loss and uncertainty that hangs over us.

"And then he sends a message to his son, Robert, to come here to his mother's grave, but the message never gets to him. And, Denmark wanted him to find the cross," Pope says, frustration lacing his voice. He starts pacing back and forth, his sneakers crunching softly against the dirt. "I know we're in the right spot. It just feels like—"