[ He's quiet for a long moment at that, working his way through that revelation. A part of him -- a far larger part than he would like to admit, in all honesty -- is in a tizzy of excitement over what this could mean. The way Nikolas speaks, it sounds very much like he might feel the same way Winter has, that he still does, like every ridiculous romantic fantasy he's read about and adapted in his own imagination might actually be true.
But how often has he gotten what he's wanted? Not for his family, or his people, his country or his district, but for himself? And it wouldn't do to plow thoughtlessly into this. What if he's wrong? They'd both be too embarrassed to ever speak to each other again. He has to stay calm, and he mostly manages it but for the nervous hope he can't quite suppress. ]
My invitation still stands. Never mind who is at fault; please tell me what you truly think.
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But how often has he gotten what he's wanted? Not for his family, or his people, his country or his district, but for himself? And it wouldn't do to plow thoughtlessly into this. What if he's wrong? They'd both be too embarrassed to ever speak to each other again. He has to stay calm, and he mostly manages it but for the nervous hope he can't quite suppress. ]
My invitation still stands. Never mind who is at fault; please tell me what you truly think.