This was ridiculous.
I was a professor. A noble. And yet here I was… second-guessing my posture, double-checking the reservation, and wondering—for the hundredth time—if this was a mistake.
No. It wasn't.
You have to do this. You owe him at least this much.
I watched as he entered La Viore, his eyes wide, posture stiff, doing everything he could to blend into a place clearly out of his comfort zone.
Black blazer. White shirt. Clean boots. Hair… decently styled.
He actually tried.
He took this seriously. Something about that made a part of me pause—not sentimentally, but… humanly. I reminded myself: This is not personal. Just necessary.
He followed me without question, and we were led to our booth. I watched him fidget as we sat, awkward, uncertain.
When I told him to order anything he wanted, he looked at me like I'd said something absurd.
"Really?"
"Consider it… my treat."
I meant it.
Then we ordered.
"I'll have the Flame-Seared Celestial Steak," he said.
