The town clock struck nine, its distant chime blooming over the rooftops like a slow bell of promise.

You stood at your bedroom window, breath quick, shawl clutched to your chest. The air was cool and touched with lilac—spring was settling in, soft and whispering. Behind you, the house was still. A candle sputtered on the desk. The floor creaked faintly as you climbed onto the ledge.

Below, the garden slumbered in shadows and silver moonlight. The scent of cut grass and damp stone rose to meet you as your slippers touched the ground. You paused only a second—heart pounding like the drums at last night’s festival—and then you ran.

The streets were cobbled and quiet, but not asleep. Light spilled from tavern windows and gas lamps blinked like stars brought down to earth. Paper lanterns from the fair still fluttered above the square, strung between awnings and shop signs like forgotten laughter.

You ran past the bakery, its windows dark, past the tailor’s with its rows of mannequins standing like soldiers in the gloom. Your breath misted as you reached the corner—your corner—the very place where they had danced the night before, surrounded by strangers and music and the scent of roasted chestnuts.

And he was there.

Sebastian Whitely stood with one shoulder against the lamppost, his coat collar turned up, his gloves tucked beneath one arm. The soft light glinted off the brass chain of his pocket watch and the hint of a smile already forming on his lips.

You slowed to a walk, catching your breath, trying not to grin like a child—but failing.

“You came,” he said, as though he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

His voice was warm, a touch breathless. He stepped forward, his boots quiet on the cobblestones, and reached out—not to take your hand, not yet, but to brush his fingers over the fabric of your shawl, like he needed to be sure you were real.

“I thought, perhaps, you'd change your mind,” he murmured. “That you'd think me foolish for asking you to meet me in the street like a scoundrel in a penny novel.”

You laughed—softly, nervously—and he smiled wider, that one crooked corner lifting like it had a secret all its own.

“You look as though you’ve run straight out of a dream,” he said. “And I’ve half a mind to believe I’m still asleep.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t empty. The town hummed around them—distant fiddles from an open tavern door, the hush of horses, the faint rattle of lace curtains in high windows. The world felt paused, hushed, watching.

He stepped closer—just enough that you could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the candle-glow in his dark eyes. They didn’t gleam like fire. They glowed. With something quiet. Something real.

“I remembered what you wore last night,” he said gently, “and then I forgot entirely, because you smiled at me.”

His words were steady, but he looked almost shy as he said it—as though it cost him something to be honest.

You looked up at him, heart fluttering like a paper lantern, caught in its own wind.

Then he offered you his arm—a gentleman’s gesture, precise and graceful—but something in his eyes said more. Said, If you take it, I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” he said softly, “but shall we go there together?”