(Joseph POV)
I wasn’t supposed to be in Montmartre.
That’s what I told myself.
There were reports to review. Calls to return. A dozen legitimate reasons to remain at the hotel suite and let the city exist without in it.
And yet here I was.
The excuse had been simple: clear my head. Walk. Think.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I wanted to be close to her.
Not in a possessive way. Not even in a hopeful way.
Just... near.
Paris at dusk had a way of softening everything. The sky blushed faintly as lights flickered on across the hill. Couples laughed. Street musicians played low lodies that drifted between stone walls.
And then I saw her.
Yvette stood near the overlook, the city stretched behind her like a jeweled backdrop. Her hair moved gently in the evening breeze, her posture relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen during our years under the sa roof.
She was smiling.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
Genuinely.
And she wasn’t alone.
Brent stood beside her.
Close enough that the distance between them felt intentional rather than accidental. His coat rested over her shoulders. His hand hovered near hers—not gripping, not claiming—just present.
I stopped walking.
The world did not.
People brushed past . Music continued. Laughter floated through the air.
But my chest tightened so suddenly it felt as if sothing inside had fractured.
This wasn’t imagined.
This wasn’t insecurity whispering in the dark.
This was real.
He looked at her the way a man looks at a woman he wants—not desperately, not hungrily.
Openly.
And she didn’t pull away.
Jealousy is an ugly word.
It implies bitterness. Anger. Possession.
What I felt wasn’t ugly.
It was quiet.
Devastatingly quiet.
I didn’t hate Brent.
If anything, I respected him.
He had stood beside her when I didn’t know how. He had been steady when I was confused. He had chosen her without hesitation.
And I had—
My jaw tightened.
I had hesitated.
When Yvette loved openly, when she stood before with that unwavering devotion in her eyes, I had been entangled with Dianne. Convinced myself that love was obligation. That history ant more than honesty.
Yvette had loved fully once.
And I hadn’t seen it.
Now I loved her fully.
And soone else was standing where I should have stood.
"If I were her," I muttered under my breath, "I would choose him too."
The thought landed heavily.
Brent didn’t carry our mistakes. He didn’t carry the weight of a broken past life she alone rembered. He didn’t remind her of falling.
He represented sothing lighter.
Sothing safer.
And perhaps—sothing she deserved more than .
I watched as Brent leaned slightly closer, speaking softly. Yvette tilted her head to listen, her expression attentive, warm.
That warmth used to be mine.
No.
That warmth had been offered to .
And I hadn’t taken it.
The ache in my chest deepened, spreading outward until breathing felt like effort.
I was late.
That was the simplest truth.
Late in understanding her.
Late in understanding myself.
Late in loving her the way she had always deserved.
They stood there a while longer.
At one point, Brent’s hand brushed hers.
She didn’t pull away.
My body reacted instinctively—a step forward, an urge to close the distance.
I stopped myself.
This wasn’t my mont to interrupt.
It wasn’t my right.
Love, if it ant anything now, ant allowing her to stand in spaces that didn’t revolve around .
Still, that knowledge didn’t make it hurt less.
I rembered her younger self—standing outside my study door with tea, smiling shyly. I rembered brushing her off gently, telling myself I was protecting her from complications.
I rembered Dianne’s hand in mine at events, Yvette standing quietly nearby, pretending not to notice.
She had been there all along.
Waiting.
And I had mistaken her patience for permanence.
Now I understood the cost of that mistake.
Yvette shifted slightly, her gaze drifting outward over the city.
For a fleeting second, I wondered if she felt .
If she sensed my presence the way I always sensed hers.
But she didn’t look my way.
She was here.
In this mont.
With him.
I forced myself to breathe.
This wasn’t punishnt.
This was consequence.
And if I truly loved her, then I would not let that love turn into resentnt.
"I won’t pull you back," I whispered, though she couldn’t hear . "But I won’t disappear either."
The decision settled inside —not as defiance, but as resolve.
I had been late once.
I would not be absent now.
Even if loving her ant watching her choose soone else.
Even if that choice broke quietly.
Because this ti, my love for Yvette was not about winning.
It was about becoming soone worthy—whether she chose or not.
I turned away before the mont grew unbearable.
Paris glittered around , indifferent and breathtaking.
And for the first ti since I had admitted my feelings, I understood what true heartbreak felt like.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Just the slow realization that love, when acknowledged too late, can still be beautiful.
And still be lost.
I don’t rember how long I stood there after I turned away.
Paris moved.
I didn’t.
At so point, my legs carried down the hill. Past cafés spilling laughter into the streets. Past couples walking shoulder to shoulder, their conversations blending into a soft murmur of shared intimacy.
I barely registered any of it.
The image wouldn’t leave .
Yvette, frad by city lights.
Brent’s coat around her shoulders.
The way she didn’t look conflicted.
She looked... present.
And that realization cut deeper than jealousy ever could.
Because when she had looked at in the past, she hadn’t always looked present.
She had looked hopeful.
Waiting.
Now she looked certain.
And I wasn’t sure whether that certainty included .
I reached the Seine without rembering crossing the distance. The river reflected the lights of the bridges like fractured gold.
I gripped the railing and let the night air hit my face.
"You’re late," I murmured to myself.
Late to understanding her.
Late to seeing how much she had given .
Late to recognizing that the quiet affection she offered so freely had not been sisterly devotion—it had been love.
And I had chosen soone else.
Dianne.
The na tasted bitter now.
I had convinced myself that loyalty ant persistence. That because Dianne had been there first, because our relationship had been public and expected, I owed her my commitnt.
But love isn’t obligation.
And obligation isn’t love.
Yvette had known that long before I did.
The irony twisted sharply in my chest.
She had loved when I was blind.
Now I loved her when she was free.
The wind picked up slightly, rustling my coat.
For a mont, my mind betrayed .
I saw another version of her.
Not the woman standing under Montmartre lights tonight.
But the one in my dreams.
The one who looked at with wounded eyes.
The one I had hurt without understanding how.
Even though I still told myself those dreams weren’t real—weren’t mories—the emotions they carried felt real enough to scar.
In those dreams, I had been cold.
Resentful.
Distant.
I had chosen Dianne.
Again.
And I had watched Yvette shrink quietly under the weight of it.
The guilt from those dreams bled into this mont.
Because whether that past was real or imagined, the truth remained:
I had failed her once.
And I was watching history threaten to repeat itself—not through cruelty this ti, but through hesitation.
I had waited until she stood firmly on her own two feet to tell her how I felt.
When she had been reaching for , I had pulled back.
When she had been ready, I had been confused.
And now that I was certain—
She was no longer alone.
A laugh escaped —short and humorless.
"Of course."
Why would she wait forever?
Why would she build her life around a man who hadn’t chosen her when it mattered?
Brent did not carry that stain.
He had stepped forward clearly.
I had lingered in the shadow of my own mistakes.
The realization didn’t make angry at her.
It made angry at myself.
I don’t know how long I stood by that river before sothing inside finally cracked.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just enough to let the truth through.
I loved her.
Not out of habit.
Not out of guilt.
Not because I was afraid of losing her.
I loved her because when she walked into a room, it felt like sothing aligned inside .
Because when she smiled, it didn’t just make happy—it made proud.
Because when she chose herself, I admired her more.
And because even now, watching her with another man, my first instinct wasn’t to drag her back.
It was to hope she was safe.
To hope she was cherished.
That was love.
And if that was love, then I needed to stop asuring it by outco.
My chest tightened again, but this ti I didn’t resist it.
"I was late," I admitted quietly to the night.
The words felt like surrender.
And relief.
Because once I acknowledged it, I could stop pretending this pain was unfair.
It wasn’t unfair.
It was earned.
I closed my eyes briefly, breathing in the cold air until it steadied .
If she chose Brent—
The thought hurt.
But it did not destroy .
If she chose Brent, then I would accept it.
Not because I was giving up.
But because loving her ant wanting her to choose freely.
Even if that freedom didn’t land on .
That understanding didn’t ease the ache.
But it gave it shape.
When I finally walked back toward my hotel, the city seed quieter.
Or maybe I was.
I replayed the mont one last ti—the coat, the proximity, the near-touch.
And instead of letting it twist into bitterness, I let it beco clarity.
I would not compete by tearing soone down.
I would not corner her with urgency.
I would not pretend I hadn’t seen what I saw.
But I would also not step back into silence.
Brent had stepped forward.
So would I.
Not aggressively.
Not desperately.
But honestly.
If Yvette was choosing between gravity and light—
Then I would show her that gravity did not an chains.
It ant steadiness.
It ant depth without drowning.
It ant a future built on understanding, not possession.
I paused outside my hotel entrance and looked up at the Paris skyline one more ti.
"I won’t pull you back," I said softly, as if she could sohow hear across the city.
"But I won’t let go either."
The decision settled in my bones.
I would beco soone she could walk toward—not soone she felt responsible for.
And if I had been late once—
I would not be absent again.
Even if loving her ant standing in the space between three hearts and waiting for hers to decide.
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