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He turns as though the conversation is already over and steps back from the table.

Then Ciaran finally looks up, catching my gaze for a split second and reminding me all over again just how dark his eyes are. His attention slides past Damaris and settles on me.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” he murmurs. “But if your friend wants to say no, he can come tell me himself.”

Heat crawls up my neck as he looks straight past Damaris and keeps talking to me.

“That’s generous,” Lucan drawls. “Most people spend weeks trying to get invited.”

A chair scrapes somewhere along the table. Several heads turn before two of the guys start pushing themselves to their feet, and for one awful second I think they’re getting ready to throw punches.

“Seriously?” a voice cuts in. “Can you stop terrorizing first-years for five minutes?”

Before anyone else can move, a tall student steps between the tables, dark hair pushed back from his forehead and broad shoulders filling half the aisle.

“Adrian.” Relief flashes across Damaris’s face. “I’ve got it completely under control, thank you. We were just leaving.” Then he points back toward me. “Ro, this is Adrian. I told you about him. He’s in my class.”

Adrian’s expression suggests he disagrees with every part of that sentence, jerking his chin in my direction without taking his eyes off Lucan.

“Anyway.” Damaris waves a hand. “We’re leaving.”

“Aw, already?” Lucan pouts.

Damaris just scoffs and turns away. He crosses back toward our table and reaches me just as I push to my feet, and for one split second I think that’s the end.

Then that same voice cuts across the room.

“Tomorrow. Eight. Don’t make me come collect you.”

The tray slips in my hands, and I nearly drop the whole thing before Damaris catches the edge and holds it steady.

“Come on,” he mutters, already guiding me away.

At first, it’s too much. Too many names. Too many corridors. Too many people who already seem to know exactly where they’re going.

But after a while, I get the hang of it. Or at least I get good enough at pretending I do.

The Music Department sits in a quieter corner of the academy, tucked into a side wing of the main building. Most of my classes overlap with the cello students, which means I don’t have to spend the day crossing half the campus trying to find them.

By late afternoon, I’m finally where I’m at my best. Alone in a practice room, a Noctis under my hands, working through scales, fingerings, and familiar exercises while I learn the weight of this instrument instead of the one I’ve spent years imagining.

The room is all glass on one side, looking down over part of the inner courtyard where the last light turns the stone gold. For a little while, if I keep playing, if I keep adjusting, if I keep listening hard enough, I can almost pretend I’m alone.

Almost.

Because after last night, my pulse still won’t fully settle. Every time my concentration slips, it finds him instead.

So I keep playing, running the same passage over and over until my fingers ache, as if I can give my hands one thing to learn and stop my body from remembering another.

By the time I make it back to the dorm, my hands are still humming. Toeing off my shoes, I sling my bag onto the desk beside his and look out the window. The last of the afternoon light is gone. Rain streaks the glass, turning the courtyard beyond into something blurred and dark.

Rain. Just like last night.

My vision fractures so fast it makes my heart slam hard against my ribs. I drag in a sharp breath and brace one hand on the desk while the other flies to my chest.

I still can’t make it add up. The chase. The invitation. The way he looked at me across the canteen. If all he wants is somebody to play the Noctis at a party, then why does any of this feel wrong?

I glance toward the window again.