This was not her world. These were not her people.

Paris wore all her casual finery on a spring afternoon, basking everyone in warm sunshine. She had no interest in Élise’s plight.

The Café de Flore announced itself in large, gold lettering, with long, wide windows and deep red awnings. Élise knew of Picasso, Sartre and de Beauvoir, all drinking coffee while the world burned in conflict. She stood in her cleanest pair of jeans and a never worn gypsy shirt. She bought it years ago, and thought it made her look dowdy. Her blonde hair was tied up and neat. She wore a little make-up – her Parisian Red. The occasion required it.

Checking the time, she swallowed back her nerves and crossed the road.

In a pristine, starched apron, a waiter led her into the depths of the café, towards the deep red banquettes and dark-panelled walls. At least no one stopped to look up. The quiet thrum of conversation never missed a beat.

Élise prickled. There was Veronique, and an older version of her.

She stood, and Madame Deveraux’s warm smile disarmed her.

“You must be Élise.”

Holding her arm softly, they exchanged la bise.

“You must be Madame Deveraux.”

She laughed, lightly, “My goodness, I am, but please call me Hélène. Would you like something to drink?”

Élise had not thought this far forward, “Erm, just a sparkling water, please.”

With a faint nod of acknowledgement, the waiter left.

“Please,” Hélène gestured to a chair, “Veronique has something to say.”

Sitting in front of her, Élise’s eyes dropped for a moment. She glanced at Veronique’s glass of wine, tilted her head, and smiled sweetly at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” Élise pursed her lips.

“What I said to you was unkind. It was unnecessary.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Veronique hesitated, “I was trying to protect Adrien.”

Her eyes burned into hers. “You were extremely unpleasant to me and him.”

“Again, I am sorry…” Veronique flushed and looked away.

Élise recognised the truth when she saw it. “Apology accepted.”

Hélène intervened. “Veronique, you can go now. Élise and I have something to discuss.”

They watched her leave.

“She has such an uncontrollable energy at times,” muttered Hélène. “If only she had applied it to her studies a few years ago.”

The waiter poured out a chilled bottle of water and left.

Élise soothed her dry mouth. “Thank you for the apology. That means a great deal to me.”

Hélène nodded graciously, “Although I saw you looking at that wine glass.”

Despite her nervousness, Élise smiled.

Hélène reciprocated with a sparkle in her eyes, “So, my son called me to say he has met someone. This makes you very important.”

“Of course, Adrien.” Immediately, she shrank a little, drawing herself in.

“No… not, of course,” Hélène soothed. “And, us women spend far too much time talking about men.”

Élise agreed.

“Now.” Hélène leaned in, “Tell me about yourself.”

She sat back, caught off guard, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I understand you are an artist. How did you start?”

The earliest beginnings were from school age. She was not academically bright, but loved to draw. Her family encouraged her as much as they could. She was homesick being at art college, but it gave her the courage to move to Paris. Hélène let her speak, and Élise softened. When talking about her small studio in Montmartre, she sometimes struggled to pay her rent. These were the days when the only thing that felt right in the world was putting charcoal on paper. She showed her hand to Hélène, saying that she never got round to buying gloves.

As Élise got closer to the present day, the strands of her life began to weave into how Adrien made an impertinent remark, and she gave back an impertinent retort. Her recollection moved from mere facts to her feelings.

Hélène smiled, “Now I understand.”

“Understand?” Élise frowned.

“I can see what Adrien sees in you. You are not just beautiful on the outside. I can see you have a good heart.”

She was out at sea, her mind spinning. “So… this is not about Sarcelles? And how I might be the same kind of woman?”

Hélène shook her head, “I can see you are nothing like her.”

She placed her hand on the top of Élise’s charcoal-stained one, “I am not here to tell you what to do. What I can do is explain my situation…  maybe this will help you decide.”

“Oh.” Élise was genuinely surprised, “I see.”

“Adrien is our middle child, our only son, and to my eternal regret, we pushed him too hard as he grew up. He took Thérèse’s death very badly.”

“Becoming a Pompier?” Hélène sighed, “It’s easy to imagine why. And, he was eighteen.”

Élise nodded along, “I can understand, too.”

Hélène agreed. “He was an adult, so what could we do? Except to love him dearly.”

From her village, Élise had friends and a loving family, but her horizons stretched wider. She left home at the same age. Living in Paris, she brought that capacity to love, and found it rejected every single time, and worse, used. All Paris ever taught her was a deep bitterness. To sit here with someone who understood love and profound loss, Élise did not see any of that. It reminded her to call her mother. She did not appreciate her enough.

“Hélène. I know you do.”

“Oh, I try.” She paused, looking away for a moment. “But… I lost a daughter that night, and then I lost a son… it left its scars.”

The events at the Gallery paled in comparison to seeing a mother in pain.

Élise held her hand, “I cannot imagine what you have been through. I am so sorry.”

She smiled softly, “Thank you.”

“And Sarcelles?” Hélène asked. “You know about this?”

“I do now.” Élise hesitated, “I know he tried to do the right thing for his ex. But… I was humiliated. He told me he never asked you for help. He said he always stood on his own two feet.”

“Did he tell you that she didn’t make it?”

Élise gasped, “She didn’t make it?”

Hélène shook her head, “No, an overdose.”

Stunned, she leaned back into her chair, “Oh God.”

Hélène nodded, “She was his first love.”

Élise placed her hand over her mouth in shock.

“He blamed himself for not getting help sooner. We all tried to console him… but he lost his sister and then this happened. His heart was wounded for a long time before he met you.”

Élise shook her head in disbelief. “I shouted at him.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Hélène squeezed her hand, “Don’t blame yourself. That’s Adrien. He takes it all on himself and keeps it all in.”

She nodded, slowly, “When I see him, I can tell how bad his day was by how much sandalwood cologne he wears. He tries to hide the smell of smoke, and he never tells me.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?”

“Yes. I do,” she whispered, and a tear fell down her cheek, “I just… I just don’t know how.”

“I understand that,” Hélène empathised, still holding her hand. “Listen. You came here today, despite what happened, and that took courage. I think you underestimate yourself. And, he wanted me to meet you. That makes you very special to him.”

She lingered on her kind eyes, “Thanks.”

“And, Élise, I can see why,” Hélène smiled, ”so that makes you very special to me, too.”

She accepted her compliment. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Perhaps we can do this again in happier circumstances.” Hélène squeezed her hand again.

They sat in silence as the hushed, dignified conversations carried on around them.

-= 15 =-

Élise left the café. The sunlight sparkled on the Seine, and Paris hinted at the summer to come. Élise remained out of the shadows, crossing the Pont des Arts bridge. Lovers once fixed padlocks to its railings as their forever promises. Paris cut them down.

The water moved slowly beneath her, and she walked into the Louvre’s courtyard. They placed a glass pyramid there, gleaming in the sunlight, the new with the old. For centuries, the Louvre existed without it, but Élise could not imagine the Louvre without its icon.

By the time she reached Rue de Rivoli, she tried to work out what she wanted. She dared to want more. Élise could not imagine her life without this.

Crossing the road, she chose to walk through Vendome. Paris was never more opulent and certain of herself with these perfect façades. Yet, even here, the stone carried the deeper scars of conflict.

Adrien stood silent in the gallery, afraid that his worst failing would be read out to her. He could never admit he failed to protect someone he loved. He never wanted Élise to doubt that.

She felt the incline to Montmartre on the backs of her legs. Paris loosened her elegance into the random beauty of life, in its shops, cafes, and restaurants. The place felt lived in, worn, but vibrant.

She thought of the Tabac and the view from her window. She remembered her small life there. Paris never asked for anything in return. Why should she? She was not living.

The notion of Adrien stepping into another fire made her anxious. When she let him hold her for the first time, she felt safe. He never asked her to be less afraid. He offered an embrace… because he understood fear. He wanted to be part of her little life, in her small studio. He saw something for them beyond that.

The guilt arrived, thick and glutinous. Finally, she understood what it cost him to keep showing up that way. Élise kept pushing him away.

Paris showed her the truth without words, and Hélène showed her empathy. They both carried their hurt with quiet dignity and grace.

After eating a modest dinner, she lay on her bed, searching for Adrien’s phone number. A notification on her phone annoyed her, slowing her down, until the news headline stopped her cold.

Notre-Dame is on fire.

“Adrien,” she gasped.

-= 16 =-

Élise was out the door before she had time to think properly.

She cycled through the streets, the wind stinging her face. When she passed his fire station, the red doors stood wide open. The bays were empty, and all three tenders were gone.

The sight turned her stomach.

Élise pushed on faster, watching the plume of smoke grow. Closer now, the air was thick with grey and black clouds contorting skywards. Dread squeezed her chest tight. Abandoning her bike, she pushed through the crowd, pleading with people to let her through. She kept saying Adrien’s name, telling anyone who would listen that he was a Pompier.

At the embankment, the scene was worse than she could imagine.

Flames licked through the roof and out through a tower, trying to devour it from the inside. Her great beacon of hope was ablaze and stricken. The spire stood in silhouette, as more flames surged around it. The rose windows glowed with a terrible, unnatural light, as if the cathedral was bleeding out.

The Seine reflected the blaze in fractured, flickering pieces. The water seemed to burn. Sirens wailed in the distance, an insignificant sound against the fire’s roar, and the low murmuring of thousands who gathered.

Élise pushed on closer, in tears, her heart hammering.

Reaching the cordon, she saw him.

Adrien stood at one of the tenders, giving out instructions. His face was streaked with soot. He didn’t look toward the crowd. He didn’t look at her. He was completely focused on the Pompiers around him.

Élise stood here, helpless, heavy with regret. When she hurt him at the restaurant, he put his jacket around her shoulders. He listened and held her. As he relived Sarcelles, deeply ashamed of the truth, she shouted at him. She pushed him away again. She told him to go home.

They had not spoken in five days.

Turning away, he looked up at the burning leviathan and walked towards it. His stride was full of purpose, unflinching and determined.

Fat tears filled her eyes and spilt down her cheeks before she could stop them. She pressed a hand over her mouth, but a broken sob escaped anyway.

A nun standing beside her gently touched her arm.

“Are you all right, my child?” the woman asked softly.

Élise shook her head.

“My boyfriend…” a tiny voice came out, cracking with emotion. “He’s a Pompier. He’s going in there.”

The nun’s expression filled with a quiet understanding. She rubbed Élise’s arm in slow, steady strokes.

“God is with them,” she replied.

Élise swallowed hard, and more fresh tears slipped down her face.

She was lost, her thoughts wired to her mouth. “His sister died in a fire. When he was younger.”

The nun was silent for a moment and then spoke gently, “And she is watching over him, too.”

She reached into the folds of her habit and pulled out a simple wooden rosary. She pressed it into Élise’s hand and covered it with her own.

“Hold on to this,” the nun offered. “And hold on to hope.”

Élise closed her fingers around the warm beads. She stared at the burning cathedral through her tears and felt the weight of the rosary. Motionless, the nun stayed beside her, holding her hand as Paris burned before them.

-= 17 =-

Some prayed openly, and many sang hymns. Others filmed in silence. Élise looked around at the crowd, standing with their hands over their mouths, or tears streaming down their faces. Phalanxes of Pompiers moved in and out of the Cathedral in small teams, their silhouettes barely visible. Each time figures ran into the smoke, the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath.

Élise’s mind remained on Adrien.

She pictured his small, hopeful smile as she worked at her easel. Day after day, he returned, even when she was at her most difficult.

Now, his kindness made her weep.

Her fingers tightened around the rosary, and he turned her charcoal-stained hand over at dinner, brushing his thumb across her palm as if the marks were something to be treasured.

No one else had ever touched her like that.

The tone of his voice when he spoke about Thérèse was quiet and personal, carrying none of the self-pity she expected. He had wanted Élise to understand the truth of it, not the performance of grief.

Veronique turned the same truth into a weapon. He did not lash out.

A fresh wave of fear cut through Élise. He was inside that burning Cathedral because he believed beautiful things were worth cherishing.

Because of his sister. Because of Paris. Because of her.

She closed her eyes. She wanted him back. She wanted the life he had been offering her all along, big and whole and terrifying.

Huge, intense flames blazed across the entire roof. Sections fell, and people cried out. Swarms of sparks and embers were thrown high into the air. Then, a long, sickening sound made the crowd gasp. A slow, tearing wrench of the cathedral’s bones, cracking. Élise’s eyes widened with alarm as the spire leaned, almost gracefully. It fell and disappeared into the flames with a roar. A massive cloud of burning debris exploded upwards into the twilight sky.

Élise screamed.

The sound tore out of her before she could stop it. Her knees buckled, and the nun caught her arm to stop her from falling. Around her, the crowd cried out in horror. Some people dropped to their knees. Others turned away, unable to watch any longer. The air was filled with weeping and desperate prayers.

Élise could not breathe. She stared at the space where the spire once stood, with her whole body shaking. A horrific certainty settled over her. Adrien was gone. She had never told him. She wanted a life with him.

He was gone.

Squeezing her hand, the nun’s kindly smile gave her a scrap of faith to carry on. Together, they repeated her prayer.

Slowly, movement returned to the scene.

Firefighters emerged, some wounded, and more ran in. The tenders kept pumping. The fire, still raging, seemed to have lost some of its ferocity. It began to move through the crowd as a fragile rumour. People started pointing and speaking of hope. She stared at one of the towers like them, trying to see what they saw. She tried to believe. Adrien was still in there, alive. She must be strong.

Élise wiped her eyes with a shaking hand. She scanned the soot-stained Pompiers as they approached their tenders.

And then she saw him.

Adrien, his face blackened without his helmet and respirator. He was limping while holding up an injured colleague.

Without thinking, she pushed forward, ducking under the cordon tape. A policeman shouted at her, but she didn’t stop. She ran straight toward the tenders, her bare feet splashing against the wet cobblestones, with the rosary clutched in her fist.

“Adrien!”

He turned at the sound of his name. For a second, he did not recognise her. Then, he started moving toward her, meeting her across the chaos.

Élise crashed into him with enough force to make him stagger. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest, sobbing openly. The smell of smoke and sweat and burned wood clung to him, but she did not care. She held onto him, mortally afraid, as if he might die all over again.

Adrien wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m here,” he soothed, his voice hoarse. “I’m here.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her face was streaked with tears and soot.

“I understand,” she sobbed. “I understand what you did and what you want. I’m yours, I’m yours. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Adrien rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Élise answered, her voice breaking. “You haven’t.”

She stayed pressed against him, her arms tight around his neck, until a Policeman pulled on her arm. She did not want to let go.

“Élise… we’ve held the towers. She’ll make it. Tell them for me, okay?”

She swallowed hard, fighting back her tears. “Yes, I will.”

Then, she summoned up her courage, staring deep into his eyes. “Go, Adrien. For Paris.”

Adrien’s expression softened. He gave her that small smile and nodded.

She let the Policeman lead her away.

Escorted back to the crowd, the nun vouched for her. People crowded around Élise, desperate for news. She shared what Adrien told her, and she felt their gratitude. Some wept with relief, and a few hugged her. But she saved her own for the nun who stood by her.

To them, she was not a girl from the provinces.

She was a Parisian, and Paris was proud of her.

-= 18 =-

Élise tidied away the two mugs on the table and gazed at the chair without his jacket. It started with that recognisable metallic rattle. Élise beamed at her studio door and met him with a kiss.

“Welcome home.” She offered.

They shared a smile.

Adrien placed his jacket on the back of the chair, and she took his hand, leading him to the bathroom. August brought a humid, clingy heat, but cooler than the fires he faced today. He had a strong tang of sandalwood on him.

A wisp of steam rose from the water she had drawn. Too warm for a summer’s day, but necessary to open his pores. Élise helped him out of his clothes. Her fingers caressed his body, searching for new injuries. There was a new bruise on his shoulder and a small abrasion on his hip. She kissed them both.

He sank into the bath with a relieved sigh.

Élise stripped from her dress and giggled at his surprise. No underwear. Stepping into the bath, she faced him on her knees. She added her bergamot soap to the large natural sponge. Taking each arm, she washed them lovingly. The lather darkened the hair between his pectorals. Her hand moved over each old scar as a memorised map of what he had given to protect others.

Illuminated by the soft light from the window, Adrien watched her. She smiled with a faint curl of her lips. They parted slightly when she concentrated. They widened when she reached the places that made him gasp.

Élise asked him to turn around. She washed his back. Lingering on his shoulders, she soothed the knots with a massage. Then, she washed his hair.

The water cooled, Élise drained the bath, and rinsed him clean. Wrapping a towel around his waist, she led him to the bed. Adrien lay back on the sheets, still damp. One arm behind his head, his body open, adorned by the golden glow of the early-evening light.

The brass bedstead threw bars of light and shadow against the wall, and the lilacs in the flowerbox stirred on the breeze. The scent of bergamot mixed with the cut lavender in a vase.

Élise grinned. She vowed to sketch him in this pose, just for herself.

Her towel fell to the floor. She raised her chin proudly, pulled her shoulders back, and approached for his enjoyment. From her elegant legs and flanks to the scalloped curves of her hips and waist, to the swell of her breasts, she did not hide. She let him look. Proud of the flush of arousal across her décolletage and the way her nipples tightened. She climbed onto the bed and crawled on her hands and knees towards him with those intense, unwavering eyes.

She kissed him first, long and deep, her tongue slid against his, claiming her man. One hand reached down and stroked him languidly, taking all the time in the world.

She broke the kiss only to whisper against his ear. “I want you like this today. All of you.”

“I’m yours,” he replied. “Every day.”

She shifted lower, her mouth following the path of her hand. She took him between her lips without hesitation and sucked the head of his shaft with wet pulls. Her eyes remained on his, and she slid down to take more of him. Her tongue pressed along its rigid underside as she worked him. One hand stroked the base, the other cupped his balls. Élise moaned around him when he throbbed in her mouth, the sound vibrating through his length. She kept going until his hips lifted and his fingers tightened in her hair.

He growled as a warning, and she hoped it was a promise.

With a wet pop, she pulled back. Élise revealed the pure mischief in her eyes. She turned and posed on her knees, facing away from him. She braced herself against the bedstead and curled her spine. Parting her thighs, she looked over her shoulder and stared back.

She flashed her eyes, “Take me like this first.”

Adrien moved behind her at once. His strong hands held her with that familiar strength. It always excited her. She reached back and guided him to her entrance. Élise teased him with her slick folds to coat him. Then, she pushed back.

He slid inside as one long thrust, making her groan at its depth. She moved, enjoying the fill of him, snug against her velvet walls. She rocked back onto him, taking more each time. The dry gasps and wet sounds rose, their union filled the room. The bed creaked, serenaded by the distant violin drifting through the open window.

Gripping her hips firmly, he thrust to meet her. Each stroke, kissing the place that made the edges of her blur. Her moans became louder and less controlled. One of his hands slid around to rub her clit while the other pulled her to him. Adrien did not stop, pushing more pleasure into her. Her body trembled, and he lowered her to the bed, her ass still high. She cried out as he took her, with sharp gasps of relief that peaked easily, clenching tight around him. She reached back with one hand and gripped his thigh, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

“God, I love you,” she murmured.

“I love you, too.”

Deep and timbrous, it provoked her for more. He was so deep inside, he caressed the ends of her. She rocked back to take it, uninhibited and greedy for the sensations.

“Let me ride you.” She whimpered.

Still glowing, she turned and chased his lips as he reclined onto his back. Élise straddled him and sank down in one smooth motion. Narrowing her eyes, she reached out. Caressing his face, she smiled, sharing silent words.

She flexed against him with confidence and pride. She stood beside her man. Élise rose up and rolled her hips on the way down. From her heavy eyelids and pouting lips, she showed herself to him. Her breasts swayed, his hands claimed them. She pressed against his broad chest with her elbows locked, grinding her clit against him.

Lost in its ecstasy, her gaze never wavered. He would feel how she felt, too. It ascended gracefully, easy as breathing,  and shook with soft yelps. Panting and flushed, her weighted eyes remained on his, and she took every aftershock.

Through the fallen locks of her hair, she pressed her hand there and felt his racing heart. With a mischievous grin, she kept him deep. Rocking back and forth, her tempo escalated. She reached back, caressing his tight balls. Adrien groaned.

“I want it all.” She pouted.

Élise met his robust thrusts, grinding back to match him. He swelled in that slippery caress of silk and steel. His strength was hers, and his deep release was a roar. Flooding her, he lunged with powerful last gasps. She refused to ease up, unblinking and confident, determined she had it all.

Their bodies stilled, panting together for air. Élise submitted to the heady lightness, sated. She collapsed onto his chest, both of them slick with sweat. She kept him inside her until his seed leaked onto her thigh.

“Mmm,” she purred, “I needed that.”

“Me too,” Adrien murmured.

“You hungry?”

He sniggered,  “Again? Give me five minutes.”

She swatted his arm and kissed him.

Dressed in thin cotton robes, they ate Viande Hachée Ratatouille with a fresh baguette. Soaking up the gravy, he shared something deep and wanted her thoughts on it. Later, he read, as Élise sketched, until she saw in his eyes how tired they looked.

In bed, lying on their sides, she rested in his arms, their curves slotted together as one. She gazed at the reds and ochres of twilight. The lilacs nodded in the breeze, and Paris continued her soulful evensong.

Adrien kissed her shoulder. “Good night.”

She purred, “Good night.”

He squeezed her tight, and she clasped his arm. Every night, before she slept, Élise dreamed of the things she wanted. Tomorrow, she would wake and watch the morning light on his sleeping face. Later, she would meet him at the fire station, wearing a new summer dress to surprise him. He might tease him by not wearing any underwear.

Élise let the warmth of his body soothe her. She imagined the sketch she would begin tomorrow. Adrien would sit by her side, watching it take shape.

His breathing evened out with his hand resting over the steady beat of her heart. He was in there, she knew it, just as she was in his, too.

Élise let go. She did every night. She was safe in his arms.

Paris hummed a lullaby for her, and she relented.

-= 19 =-

In the rich late-afternoon light, Élise sat at her easel. She watched how his sun-kissed face caught the light and the faint lines around his eyes. She kept glancing at him, trying to hide what she was doing.

Adrien sat at a café table, chatting with the owner. George was a retired Pompier. They enjoyed a beer and always found plenty to talk about. George, his wife, Marie, and Bernard were more than acquaintances now. There was Hélène, and Veronique, too. It took time, but as Hélène observed, they shared the same temperament: fiercely loyal. They visited and sat in the square, no family name, no pretence, with Élise as part of the family.

She grinned at him.

“What are you doing?” Adrien asked.

“Come and see.”

She let him watch, sketching for herself, and no one else. Making a few fine line adjustments, she set her charcoal down.

“You have my likeness,” and he slid his arm around her, “But that expression. Where have you seen that before?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen it for a while. Over a year, in fact. It was that faraway look you had. When you kept the big things in.”

Adrien mulled over her words. “Yeah, I did.”

Élise leaned against him and nudged him playfully, “You always looked so tough… it drove me wild for you.”

She turned to face him and held out a finger, “But… don’t think I liked it. You still drive me wild. You are my tough guy. But don’t keep things in.”

He gave her that small smile, “I won’t.”

Élise took off her gloves and giggled when she revealed her unblemished hands. They sat down together, and she took his hands into hers.

“I’ve been thinking about that time last year,” she mused. “We didn’t make it easy for ourselves. But you know what?”

“What?”

“It sounds weird, but I’m grateful for it. It helped us realise we were meant to be.”

Adrien was quiet for a moment.

“Very true,” he admitted.

Élise squeezed his hands gently.

“Well, you wanted ordinary,” she offered, “so look around you. This is what ordinary looks like to us now. For the tourists? This place is magical. You told me once it was a lie. I don’t think you do now.”

He smiled and shook his head, “You have a memory like an elephant.”

“Hmmmm. I do.” She kissed him. “Adrien. I draw like that because it’s what I want Paris to be. Magical. I understand now, that’s my role in life. The people who buy it, that's what they feel.”

She sighed deeply and gazed into his eyes. “This is my home. With you.”

Tears welled in them, “And… maybe I should be nicer to the tourists as well.”

“Easy… “ he offered, “small steps… we’ll work up to the tourist part together.”

Élise smiled and sighed deeply again. “Share it with me, Adrien. Share your life with me, forever.”

She paused, trembling, “And we will love each other through it, good times and bad.”

Adrien looked at her for a long moment, and she felt a tremor in his hands. The noise of the square moved around them: the low voices of other artists, others speaking different languages, and the laughter from the cafés and restaurants.

“I can do that,” he said quietly, “with you.”

A tear ran down her cheek, “I can with you, too.”

Retrieving it from her pocket, she slid a small box across the table.

“This is yours now.”

He frowned, puzzled, and took it. Opening it, he gasped and shut it quickly.

She smiled, small and hesitant, “So, would you like me to tell your mother? Or do you want to do it?”

Élise built herself up, strong and tall. “Marry me, Adrien.”

Leaning over, she kissed him as a promise to cement those words.

He caressed her face, beaming. “Of course, I will. Yes.”

Caught up in his embrace, she squeezed him tight, too.

“Magical,” she whispered.

Later, on the balcony across the frontage of the Sacré-Cœur, they looked down over Square Louise Michel. Élise surveyed the skyline, looked to Adrien, and took his hand.

The City of Light was beginning to wake.

They watched the sun slip away, and Paris lit itself from within. Windows began to glow their honeyed gold. The white stone of Sacré-Cœur dimmed as permission for the streetlamps to take over. And, even though Paris remained wounded, she refused to stay dark.

She shone anyway, because she could.

“She inspires me,” Élise said softly. “This city. She always finds a way to be beautiful.”

She sighed, “Don’t get me wrong, she’s Parisian and frustrating as hell. But… I will keep drawing, and keep trying. For her.”

Adrien reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, and his thumb lingered against her cheek.

“And I protect her,” he said. “And I protect you.”

He pulled her close, “And… I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They stood like that for a long time. Just two people, choosing each other in an ordinary, extraordinary way.

The way that real love is.

And between them, love held.

Or, just…

Paris.