Rosalind found him in the clearing where she'd left him three days ago. He sat on a fallen log, waiting. She needed his devotion more than she wanted to admit, and every refusal made that need sharper. This time she wouldn't charm or tease or circle. She would offer him what he'd asked for — honesty, conversation, the truth she'd been holding back. But he spoke first. "One conversation," he said. "Tell me something true about yourself, and I'll listen." Rosalind felt the trap close around her, gentle as his voice. If she gave him truth, he might leave with that quiet certainty she couldn't fight. If she didn't, he'd walk away now. She stepped closer. She turned toward the tall mirror that stood at the clearing's edge, its frame glittering with fractured light. The quartz caught the sun and threw it back in pieces — blue, violet, pink. Beautiful and impossible to hold. She touched the frame once, then looked at his reflection instead of his face. "I collect devotion because I'm afraid of wanting it," she said. The words came out flat. Simple. "If I make it a game, I don't have to ask for it. And if someone refuses me gently, I have nothing to push against. Nothing to blame but myself." She met his eyes in the glass. He didn't speak. Didn't move. But he stayed. For the first time, he stayed without her asking.