A 200


    Beside me, Reba stitted in her sleep, turning to nestle against my side. I wrapped my arm around her, polling her closer, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Whatever came next, whatever challenges we faced, I would protect her–even if that meant protecting her from the full truth <b>until </b>she was ready to hear it.


    Reba’s POV


    One <b>Week </b>Later


    I struggled to keep my eyes open as Professor Lane exined the influence of post–modernism on contemporary fashion design. The lecture hall felt unusually warm, and despite having slept nearly nine hoursst night, fatigue weighed on me like a physical presence.


    After spending several days at the mountain resort with Sofia–days filled with unexpected reconciliation when Dominic appeared in wolf form and our subsequent heart–to–heart–I thought I’d be rejuvenated. Instead, I felt Increasingly exhausted.


    1 stifled another yawn, forcing myself to focus on Professor <b>Lane’s </b>animated gestures as <b>he </bpared different design philosophies. My pencil moved sluggishly across the page, my notes bing increasingly illegible.


    The revolutionary approach to silhouette during this period…” Professor Lane’s voice seemed to fade in and out as I fought to stay awake.


    The student beside me–Mia, I thought her name was–slid a water bottle toward me with a concerned nce. I smiled gratefully and took a <b>sip</b>, hoping the cold liquid might shock me back to alertness.


    “Ms. Brown?”


    I jerked upright, realizing with horror that Professor Lane <b>was </b>looking directly at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.


    silent. The ssroom had gone s


    “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” I asked, heat rushing to my face as a few students snickered.


    Professor Lane’s expression was more concerned than annoyed. “I asked if you could borate on how Yamamoto’s deconstruction techniques rted to the concept we just discussed.”


    uch <b>guess </b>


    at an answer. “I… I’m not sure,”


    My <b>mind </b>wentpletely nk. I hadn’t heard enough of the lecture to even I <b>admitted</b>, mortification washing <b>over </b>me.


    He studied me for a moment longer before mercifully turning to another student. “Mr. White, perhaps you could share your thoughts?”


    As attention shifted away from me, I slumped in my seat, wondering what was wrong with me. I’d spent a week


    22.00


    rxing <b>at </b>a luxury resort, reconciled with Dominic, and things between us were better than ever. <b>So </b>why did I feel like I could barely function?


    When ss finally ended, I <b>gathered </b>my things slowly, still feeling lightheaded. I needed to return Professor Lane’s suit. I’d finally remembered to bring it back after having it dry–cleaned.


    “Professor Lane?” I knocked softly on his office door after most students had cleared out.


    “Come in, Reba.” He looked up from his desk, his expression warming. “I was hoping to speak with ss.”


    you after


    I stepped into his office, the familiar scent of old books and coffee creating a <bfortable </b>atmosphere. I pulled the dry–cleaned coat from my <b>bag </b>and held it out.


    “Thank you for lending me <b>this</b>. I’m sorry it took so long to return it.”


    He smiled, taking the coat from me. “Not at all necessary, but I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”


    As he hung the coat on a rack behind his desk, he continued, “Your design talent shouldn’t be dampened by a sudden storm, literal or figurative.” He turned back to me, his expression shifting to concern. “Are you feeling alright, Reba? <b>You </b>seemed distracted in <b>ss </b>today.”


    “I’m fine,” I started to say, but suddenly, a powerful wave of nausea rolled through me. My face must have paled because Professor <b>Lane’s </b>expression immediately turned rmed.


    “Reba?”


    “I’m sorry,” I managed to gasp before pping a hand over my mouth and rushing from his office toward the nearest bathroom, barely registering his concerned call after me.


    I barely made it into a stall before violent retching <b>overtook </b>me. After several miserable minutes<b>, </b>I leaned weakly against the wall, trembling. This was the second time this week this had happened. What was wrong with me?


    I heard the bathroom door open and Professor Lane’s hesitant voice called out, “Reba? Do you need help?”


    Embarrassment flooded through me. Great. Now one of my professors had heard me throwing up.


    “I’m…” I tried to respond, but another wave of nausea cut me off.


    A few momentster, when I emerged from the stall, pale and shaky, Professor Lane was waiting outside the bathroom with a bottle of <b>water </b>and concerned eyes.


    “This isn’t just fatigue, is it?” he asked gently, handing me the water.


    <b>9:09 </b>Fri<b>, </b>Sep <b>26 </b>


    20


    I took a small sip, trying to settle my stomach. I think I might have caught something at the resortst week, said weakly, though that didn’t exin why I’d felt tired even before that.


    Professor Lane’s expression was firm but kind. “You need to see a doctor. This isn’t normal, especiallybined with- your inability to focus in ss,”


    I started to protest, but he shook his head. I’m driving <b>you </b>to the hospital myself. After your recent concussion, these symptoms could be serious.”


    Chapter Comments