That afternoon, Reynard found me in the library. Unlike Sebastian's pestering, he simply handed me a folded note.

"Tonight at seven, Silver Moon Restaurant just outside campus. Would that work? I'd like to discuss the field trip arrangements with you."


I met his forthright gaze and nodded.

Silver Moon Restaurant offered subdued lighting and tranquil ambiance. Reynard pulled out my chair with practiced ease—gentlemanly without being obsequious.

He began, as expected, with business. The Medical School and Fencing Club would handle travel logistics and student safety. He outlined everything from itineraries to emergency protocols with meticulous precision. A natural leader—steady and thorough.


After ordering, however, he barely touched his silverware, occasionally sipping water, his gaze drifting. Something clearly weighed on his mind.

I'd had enough of emotional games. Setting down my cutlery, I leaned forward and met his eyes directly.


"Reynard," I asked plainly, "do you have feelings for me?"

His hand jerked, sending the lemon slice in his water dancing. My directness had clearly caught him off guard; momentary panic flashed across his features before settling into resigned honesty.

He set down his glass and folded his hands on the table—a man preparing for a confession.

"Yes," he answered—one word, delivered with quiet conviction.

He raised his eyes to mine, no longer evading, his lake-green irises reflecting my image.

"I've admired you for two years, Arya. Since that first day you rescued the nearly-defunct Poetry Society and transformed it with such quiet competence."

My heart stuttered—not from thoughts of Sebastian, but because someone I'd barely noticed had been witnessing my efforts all along.

"I planned to tell you at the spring ball." His smile turned rueful. "Then I learned you were already with Sebastian."

No accusation, no self-pity—just a simple statement of fact that had left him powerless.

"I'm not royalty," Reynard continued with unassailable sincerity. "My family has practiced medicine for three generations—comfortable but not wealthy. I'll become a doctor myself. I can't offer you a court painter's title or a palace."

He paused, his expression intensifying.

"But I can promise you respect, loyalty, and the protection of a healer's hands. I won't abandon what's real and present for some nebulous, glittering future."

His words were a key, turning precisely in the most guarded lock of my heart.

While Sebastian had wavered for a counterfeit princess, Reynard was choosing me—the real, unadorned me.

I should have refused him. My heart's wound was still raw; I had no business rushing into another attachment.

Yet gazing into those sincere eyes, my refusal died unspoken. He wasn't offering empty promises—he was showing me his life's blueprint, and I was there, written into its foundations.

I sat silent for a long moment.

"All right," I finally said, my voice unexpectedly rough. "Reynard, I'll give you a chance."

Watching his eyes brighten, I added softly:

"And I'll give myself one too."