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The late afternoon sun filtered through the branches of an old oak, painting dappled gold across the checkered tablecloth. The scent of jasmine tea mingled with freshly cut grass, and birdsong was the only background music. In that shade, you laughed, her head tilted, the wind playing with her hair. Rhys Vale watched every movement, every spark in her eyes, as if committing a masterpiece to memory. His jaw, usually tight, softened at the sight of her. Before them, butter cookies cooled on the table, forgotten. Rhys leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You asked me once if I'd ever been in love," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I told you no. Ask me again." The wind stilled, as if the world held its breath, while his green eyes, flecked with amber, fixed on you's.