What if something happened to him?

Élise remained distracted amongst the burbling chatter and the sounds of the other diners eating. Tucked away from Canal Saint-Martin, the restaurant was a bijou, slightly down-at-heel place. With soft lighting, it had an intimate air. The lack of pretension made her feel at home, away from the constant ‘ Paris expects’. The sparse menu changed with the seasons, and it had no need to impress anyone because the food did.

She would never admit it, but they had this in common. They both loved Provençal cuisine.

Adrien topped up her wine with that small, happy smile. He wore the dark shirt that she liked. Élise pondered on that expensive watch he rarely looked at. And yet, looking at his hands, she thought about what they did when he was in uniform.

She knew for two weeks before Adrien told her that he was a fireman – a Pompier.

Two weeks of brooding on it.

Élise considered the schoolchildren visiting the station as an abstract set of facts. Adrien never mentioned it to her either. It gave her another reason not to trust him, and who didn’t act properly in front of children and their teachers?

When he told her, Adrien never said he was a captain. His modesty surprised her. She shrugged and showed the right amount of indifference. Élise asked a few questions and tried to provoke him. He did not brag and would not talk about himself.

Nothing.

In her moments alone, she would lie in bed, wondering if his luck might run out. He might get hurt… or worse.

She hated how much she cared about him.

Élise looked at Adrien again, happily eating his Daube Provençale. She did not consider this a relationship. For a month, she tried to fight it until they ended up in bed together.

Again, Élise frowned.

Why would someone like him, from a wealthy family, choose to be a Pompier?

Adrien caught the look on her face. “You’ve been different since last week. Is everything okay?”

She gave him a small, crooked smile. It did not reach her eyes.

“I keep thinking about it,” she admitted. “You, running into fires.”

He nodded along, his eyes a little distant, “You shouldn’t worry. It is a dangerous job, but I’m good at it.”

Too proud to ask, and too hurt to admit her feelings. Slightly patronised by his words, she did worry, and she did care. It crushed her brittle emotions into a tight, hot ball.

She picked up her wine glass and pointed it at him. “It must be nice to have something noble to do while you wait for your inheritance.”

Adrien’s eyes met hers, knife and fork in hand.

“I mean, look,” Élise jabbed a finger at it, “If I had a watch like that, I would never stop admiring it. It’s beautiful. You never do. It’s just there for you. I suppose it’s easy to play the hero when you have your rich family to fall back on. ”

Her bitterness sounded much worse than she intended. Élise regretted it immediately.

He seemed to shrink and crumple a little. A pall of sorrow filled his eyes, not fresh, but old.

“This watch was a present from my sister.” He paused as a ghost flickered through his eyes, “She died in a fire when I was eighteen.”

Her wine tasted sour, and Adrien would not meet her gaze, not this time.

“She was the only member of my family who saw me for who I was. A child.”

Élise remained motionless, quietly horrified. He glanced up, trying to convince her that he was okay.

He failed.

“Growing up, my parents had their expectations. Thérèse didn’t.” Adrien put his cutlery down. “She sneaked me out of the house and took me to football matches. She let me eat fast food. She told me I didn’t have to become what they wanted.”

Adrien paused, his face solemn. “She understood the one thing I wanted more than anything else in this world. To be ordinary…. normal.”

The restaurant felt silent around her.

“She was staying at my friend’s apartment,” Adrien whispered mournfully. “Faulty wiring. By the time the fire crews arrived, it was too late. They were asleep. The smoke got them. A small blessing.”

He stopped, glanced into her eyes, and then back to his wine glass.

“I kept thinking, if I had been there… I would have known what to do…”

His words sounded well-trodden and repeated many times over.

Adrien looked down and sighed. “Silly, really.”

“After that, nothing made sense.” He glanced up, his eyes glistening. “The money, the family name, and the life they wanted for me. It felt like a sick joke. I rejected it.”

Now, he looked at her and held her gaze. “All of it.”

Élise shifted uncomfortably.

“So,” and he raised his eyebrows, “I became a Pompier. It was the only thing that made sense.”

Élise watched as the past faded from his expression and he returned to the present. Adrien managed a small, distressed smile. He was still trying to reassure her.

Instantly, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his.

“I’m sorry about your sister.” She would not look away, not this time.

He nodded, just once. “Thanks. You weren’t to know.”

-= 9 =-

They left the restaurant in a strained silence. A moonless night cast a pall of darkness over the city. Choosing to be enigmatic, Paris kept her own counsel, adding to Élise’s concerns. Drizzle caught the light from the ornate Belle Époque lampposts, illuminating the street in a soft, silver haze. It would be poetic, yet to Élise, it felt cruel to see such beauty.

Adrien walked beside her without speaking, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders drawn in. She wore his jacket as an act of gallantry, and Élise knew she did not deserve it. She kept glancing at him, waiting for him to speak. Most men would have shouted at her by now.

For a month, she pushed him away, and now this, harsh words and a mocking tone that cut into his heart. For Élise, irony had the last word. She denied caring about him until the moment she hurt him. Now, she realised how much she did.

Adrien stayed quiet. For Élise, each step felt heavier than the last.

The streets were quieter, the buildings dark under the weaker lamplight. A car passed them, tearing the peace with a long splash from the puddles. In the distance, its brake lights blurred in the mist.

Élise stopped. She feared the worst as Adrien kept walking.

He stopped, too, and turned around. Looking at Élise, his face was blank, waiting for her.

She clenched her fists at her sides, mist clinging to her hair, soft on her face. It leapt in her ribcage, thumping and aching. Her mind screamed to walk away.

Marching forward, she closed the distance and kissed him. Only with her lips, and even at their most uninhibited, nothing matched this one. Quivering, she placed her shaking hands on his chest and left them there.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, softer than a whisper. “What I said was cruel. You didn’t deserve that.”

He stared at her for a moment.

“Why, Élise?” He asked. “Why are you so angry with everything? You’re capable of such beauty through your art. You put your soul into it. I see the real you.”

“Adrien…”

“I can overlook your wariness of me. It’s tough in a city on your own.” He diverted his gaze for a moment, “But that? But what you said tonight…”

He shook his head, his eyes filled with disappointment. “I’m not rich, Élise. I walked away from all of that. Did you really think I had an easy life?”

Adrien turned away and ran a hand through his hair. “I see people die, Élise. Or they are already gone by the time we get there.”

He looked right into her. “You're alive, and you need to stop pretending you have everything you want in life. Because as I see it right now, you’re not living it.”

Emotion creased his features. “I just… I just don’t know anymore.”

Élise’s blood ran cold, and she could not bear to look at him.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

She glanced up at him briefly and knew this was not enough.

“Men have never been kind to me.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth. “Or, they are, and they said the right things until they didn’t get what they wanted.”

Her mouth quivered, trying to find the shapes of the words to say. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“And there was one… one… who didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘No.’”

She tried to meet his eyes, but she could not reveal her shame.

”Oh, Élise.”

He walked up to her and gathered her up in his arms, cradling her head in his hand.

“Adrien. I thought if I kept you at a distance, it wouldn’t matter when you left,” Her voice faltered. “Because they always do, and you haven’t.”

She wept. “Tonight…  I pushed you away again, even though I know you’re not like them.”

Élise squeezed him. “I care about you… but… I’m so afraid.”

He held her tight, softly rocking her.

Neither of them spoke for a while as a streetlamp hummed softly above them.

Paris seemed to hold her breath.

They broke, and Adrien looked at her. He wiped her tears away.

“Take me home?” Élise reached up and touched his face. “Please?”

She placed another kiss on his lips. “I want to show you what you mean to me.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once.

-= 10 =-

They walked the rest of the way without speaking. When they reached the Tabac, she led him up the narrow stairs, heart pounding, mouth dry with every step. The studio was dark except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside. The lilacs in her flowerbox were beginning to bloom.

She did not turn on the lamp. Instead, she turned to him in the half-light and began to undress, slowly, without performance.

This time, there was no rush.

Élise let her panties fall. She was naked. Stepping forward, she emerged from the shadows, letting the light dance over her body. She did not look away. She wanted him to see her fears. Her dreams. This was the woman she had kept hidden. Her breathing hitched, her stomach tightened. The old instinct to cover herself rose sharply, but she forced her hands to stay at her sides.

Revealing the fear in her eyes, she took his hands into hers and kissed them. Élise placed hers on his chest, and with a tentative first kiss, tears spilt silently down her cheeks. Embracing him, she felt his strength and the warmth of his body against hers. Careful fingers worked at his buttons, slowly revealing him. With every new place she discovered, she placed her lips there, tasting the faint trace of smoke beneath the sandalwood.

Her hands led the way until they were standing, skin against skin. Élise looked at him, her cheeks wet with tears, and kissed him deeply. Her words to describe her feelings were stuck. This was the best she had.

Cradling the back of his head, she pressed her forehead to his. “I’ve got you.”

He nodded slowly. She smiled through fresh tears, but that little voice within disagreed.

With the courage she always feared, Élise led him to the bed. She laid him on his back and straddled him, her knees bracketing his hips. For a moment, that bitter voice rose inside her, louder this time.

You will fail as you did with all the others.

Élise almost stopped.

Trembling, she took him in her hand and lowered herself in one slow, deliberate motion. It narrowed her eyes. It stalled her breathing. Yet, her gaze never wavered as the sensation pushed a soft moan from her. That long-denied ache, her deep loneliness, was roused with her fears. Full of him, she revealed it all, and the locked doors in her soul clicked open.

Her hands braced against his chest, one covering his heart. Élise felt it beating with hers, two as one, reminding her of those years of solitude. She did not look away and took him to the hilt. She let it live inside her, even as part of her screamed that she would lose him, too.

Élise moved in a slow, unhurried rhythm. She saw the small life she had deprived herself of. Two mugs on the table. His jacket over the back of her chair. Waking alongside him, and seeing him at peace. The picture arrived whole and terrifying.

Soothed by how she moved for him.

Drawing patient circles, he hit all those places, steeped by her imagination and their life together. Sunlight moved across the studio floor as she drew and he read. She pressed down harder, her movements flexed with a more potent need. She felt those nights when Adrien’s burden would no longer have to be carried alone. Nights when she would wash him, tend to him, and make love to him. To be the one who provided the beautiful things he needed in a world of ugliness and sorrow.

Body smeared back and forth with an elegant grace until the ordinary and these unbearable emotions lived in the same breath. With a gasp, she locked her elbows and curled her spine. She moved with more urgency, chasing the emotions building inside her.

Openly weeping, she would not look away from his mesmerising grey eyes.

“I see you, Adrien,” she whispered, as tears fell from her. “I remember the day when you suffered that long night. You still came to see me. I saw you at the station with the children weeks ago. I see what you carry inside.”

She felt that old reflex rise, and she wanted to turn away and hide her shame. For a moment, she almost did.

I am afraid, and I am staying.

Adrien tried to speak. She placed a finger over his lips.

“Shh….easy.”

Élise reached out and caressed his face. “You were right.”

More tears fell onto his chest.

Her quiet voice fractured, she swallowed, and it returned as a whisper. “I… I do not live, but I want to be there for you so much.”

Élise took his hand, the one with his wristwatch, and kissed the strap. He was young and invincible. She understood that sense of betrayal. Her fear did not leave her. Her rhythm faltered. She almost stopped.

Adrien’s hand tightened on her hips, and she pressed it to her body, anchoring herself to him. She kept moving, still joined to him.

Peering down, she managed a weak smile and pushed the fear away.

“I have never…” Her tiny voice faltered as she fought with her fears, “I … I have never let anyone see me like this. But I want you to. Do you see me?”

“I do,” he whispered, “I see you, Élise. I always have.”

“You have?”

“Always, from the minute I first saw you.”

He smiled that small smile, and she sobbed openly. Braced against him, her fears melted away. Rolling her hips, she found a sensual rhythm as her gift to him. For the man who came to her easel day after day, demanding nothing in return.

Élise gathered pace. Her expression changed as glimmers of ecstasy rose from within.

“Be mine, Adrien.”

“I promise, Élise.”

Her hand pressed flat against his heart as if she could pour her feelings straight into it.

“I… I… I’ll be yours, too.”

Élise’s face softened, and she revealed how it rolled through her. It folded in on itself, over and over. Rising from warm to hot, to a searing white heat. Her body flowed as water, effortlessly through her body and hips.

It surged, fierce and unstoppable. With her body and emotions combined, she let it take her. She refused to turn away and chose ecstasy over fear. Her mouth fell open in a soundless cry that broke into an exultant wail. The last thing she saw was his beautiful face. She was a pure, bright light moving through shadows, no longer detached from the fragile world they shared. She exposed everything she held back, and only for him.

Her hands clutched at his chest as the waves kept coming, still squeezing him. She stayed upright, truly seen for her emotions, the tears, and her bliss-stricken eyes.

No shame… no shame…

Completely undone, sheened with sweat, Élise trembled, still twitching with its aftershocks.

The last tremor passed, and he reached out to her.

She caressed his face. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

Élise grinned as an old memory spoke with a tiny voice. She embraced it. Wiping her eyes, she unfurled her hair and let it hang loose. With the slow, hypnotic circles of her hips, she took his hands and placed them onto her breasts.

Braced against his torso and thigh, Élise sat upright. Tilting her head, she lingered for a moment, feeling that old sense of mischief. The tempo built slowly, grinding back and forth with a determined, hungry expression.

Now, she dared to show him the future she wanted. “I’ve got you.”

“Élise… I’m going to… ”

“Yes,” and she smiled, “You will, and I’ve got you.”

Enjoying the thick, full feeling of him, she reached for his hand and held it as the moment approached. Watching him, she felt him swell inside her. A quiet thrill moved through her at the power she held.

“Cum for me,” she said softly.

She moved with a measured, determined pace, enjoying the friction. Watching him surrender, she felt the rumbling sound of his climax approaching. He tensed, and she pushed him firmly into the bed. The slap-slap-slap of her body was her final provocation.

His deep groan was the music that played to her tempo. He pulsed hard, deep within her, and she squeezed tight to give her everything. He lunged, and she pushed down to meet each one.

Stroking his hair, she smiled at the dreamy look in his eyes.

“Sssh, Easy…” she soothed, rousing his perfect smile.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he replied, with a carefree whisper. “And you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Later, they lay facing each other, talking, with kisses as punctuation. Paris was quiet around them, contented, as if she had been waiting for this.

Élise let her have this small victory, for now.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” The question was fragile, straight from the heart.

“Of course.”

“I won’t let you go, Adrien.”

“Don’t ever.”

She kissed him.

“So, you rest now. I will be here tomorrow. I’ll get croissants for breakfast.”

“Mmm…” he murmured.

She rested her arm around him, warm and safe, beneath the eiderdown.

Letting her eyelids fall, she allowed herself to feel what she had been afraid of.

And smiled.

-= 11 =-

It became a fragile rhythm. Her old fears remained, but their moments together chipped away at the edges of the small, safe world she had built. Adrien stayed at her studio two nights a week. Élise still needed room to breathe for those quieter hours alone while she sketched.

Yet a sense of permanence reassured her, and their intimate moments helped that grow. She found herself looking forward to the sound of his footsteps on the narrow stairs. When he left, she felt the fond ache of missing him. In her studio, where she had once taught herself to stop wanting anything, little fragments of her dreams began to gather. Breakfast at the small table. Ham-cheese croissants and coffee. Two mugs left on the table to come home to, something to smile about when she returned home. She understood how the sunlight moved across the floor while she drew, and Adrien read nearby.

With each passing day, her confidence grew, and she discovered a contentment she had never known before. She was starting to trust her feelings again, if only in these small, careful moments.

When Adrien’s mother extended an invitation to the gallery opening, Élise felt both wary and hopeful. This was a milestone. She wanted it to work.

As a former mansion in Saint-Germain, Napoleonic chandeliers hung from the original moulded ceilings, but now they lit up huge abstract canvases instead of a ballroom. The air smelled of champagne and expensive perfume, a scent that cost more than Élise made in a year.

She wore the same black dress from their first rendezvous and matched it with some new shoes.  Pinning her hair up, she wore a little make-up, not her Parisian Red but something muted. She presented herself as who she was. Unassuming, elegant, and she hoped no one would give her a second look. Picking up a champagne flute, she drank the first quickly, soothing her nerves. Staying close to Adrien’s side, he did not let her go. A few patrons recognised him and gathered around, making easy conversation. It gave Élise hope that the evening might be bearable.

Outside those tall windows, the real city continued. Mopeds weaved between taxis, and laughter spilt out from the bars. Here? Élise could not feel Paris in their presence, and despite their hate-love relationship, she missed her.

In an adjacent corner, a striking woman in a black-and-silver gown finished her conversation. She flicked her long, shiny, brunette hair and scanned the room. When her eyes found Adrien, recognition lit up her face. Tall and striking, she drifted towards them, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

“Adrien!”

Exchanging air-kisses, la bise style, Élise hid her concerns.

“Veronique. What are you doing here?”

“Gstaad was so dull.”

“And, mother?” he asked.

“She’s running late.”

Élise hid her relief that she was Adrien’s younger sister. Veronique’s sapphire eyes lingered on her plain black dress and charcoal-stained hand. With a lop-sided smile, she took pleasure in making Élise feel she stood out.

“And Adrien,” she drawled. “This must be Élise.”

“Hello.” She offered a traditional la bise greeting.

Veronique backed away, preferring a slow sip of Champagne. “So, the girl from Montmartre. The one who paints pictures of cobblestones for Americans.”

Élise felt heat rise in her face. “I paint what I see.”

“How charming.” Veronique’s smile thinned, “and you get to meet Mother, too.”

She flashed her eyebrows, “It seems so.”

“Lucky you.” Veronique’s eyes narrowed, “although you are not the first, but so similar.”

Squeezing Adrien’s hand for help, she looked at him. His eyes remained rigid and unblinking.

“I mean, look at you.” Her tone dripped with disdain, “Adrien always did have a weakness for local colour.”

The hand that rested lightly on her back stilled.

Veronique’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pinched with cruelty. “Adrien has a habit of picking up damaged girls. I suppose after Sarcelles, he needs someone easy who doesn’t ask too many questions. Even after all these years, he still has a type.”

The words hit Élise harder than anything else she said.

Shocked, she looked directly at Adrien, “Are you going to let her speak to me like that?”

Veronique looked at his blank face and laughed.

Élise raised her voice, “Well, are you?”

Around them, the meandering conversations stopped.

Their eyes bore down on Élise. The girl from the provinces, in a dress that felt like a costume, stood in a room full of people who never once worried about their rent. She turned and walked straight through the crowd. Stepping out into the night air, the damp greenery of Luxembourg Gardens and the inky Seine hit her like a slap.

“Élise!”

She walked faster, and her new heels pinched. When she reached the corner of Rue de Seine, she stopped, took them off, and continued barefoot across the wet cobblestones.

The ones she painted for Americans.

“Élise, wait…”

She stopped and turned to face him.

“What?” she threw her hand in the air, “Now you are going to do something? I was humiliated in there, and you need to explain yourself.”

He looked to the pavement, unwilling to look her in the eyes.

“Adrien… look at me,” she shouted. “You’d better say something damn soon.”

His eyes lifted, and he looked hesitant. “When I joined the Fire Brigade, the only place I could afford to live was Sarbelles.”

“Sarbelles?” Élise blanched, “That place is dangerous. Were you mad?”

“It was all I could afford. And, something happened.”

“So, is this the damaged woman, or is that me?”

“She got into drugs. I got her into rehab, but when my money ran out, I asked my family for help.”

The words landed hard, and Élise’s chest tightened. “So you went crawling back after all? You lied to me. You said you rejected their world completely.”

He would not look her in the eye. “I didn’t want you to see me as a failure who couldn’t stand on his own two feet. I got in over my head.”

Élise shook her head, “Your silence tonight hurt more than her words.”

She turned away and then shot him a cold, icy stare. “I believed in you, Adrien!”

Her voice stalled with the hurt bubbling to the surface, “Now? It makes me think you are like all the others.”

Élise slipped on her shoes and began to walk towards the gallery.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to that awful place to get my shawl from the cloakroom.”

She marched with her shoes pinching, rubbing at her smouldering rage. She could hear Adrien’s footsteps, marching behind her. Élise glanced into the gallery windows. Veronique was laughing, her hand resting on the forearm of someone. Her anger ignited, with the injustice twisting in her stomach.

Walking in, she picked up a champagne flute from a tray. Standing directly in front of her, Élise threw its contents straight at her face.

Veronique gasped in shock as it dripped from her chin.

The entire gallery went quiet.

“Now, we’re even.” She hissed.

Adrien tried to take her arm and lead her away. Calmly, she took a step back.

“Go home,” she scowled. “I have nothing to say to you.”

And Élise went to get her shawl.

-= 12 =-

There were no tears until she reached the Seine.

Standing in a persistent downfall, she watched the lamplight in the black puddles, shimmering as shattered mirrors. A couple kissed in a doorway. Somewhere, a saxophone noodled solemnly through the rain. Paris did not care that Élise was humiliated; she was being herself, beautiful, indifferent, and slightly cruel.

Élise stood on the Pont Saint-Michel, barefoot in the cold, and the city spread out on either side of her. She let herself believe that she belonged here. That Paris might let her in, and Adrien was not like the others.

Money. She never understood it, Pride. She was an expert.

Money and pride? She could not bargain it away - he lied to her.

But standing there, with the dark river moving beneath her and the rain running down her face? The truth settled in her heart, turning it to stone.

She did not have the strength for this.

In the distance, Notre Dame stood unyielding against the rain. This was her first memory of Paris. When she was small, she received a postcard from her Aunt and Uncle, addressed only to her. Notre Dame was her talisman and the inspiration to live here.

Tonight, she stood in silhouette, untouched by life's disappointments. She was always her beacon of hope and the embodiment of her dreams. And yet more than ever, it felt like an illusion.

Maybe it was time to go home, back to the provinces.

Her shawl was soaked, her dress clung to her legs, and her bedraggled hair sat cold on her shoulders.

She stayed and let Paris wash this dreadful evening off her skin.

-= 13 =-

For three days, she had not heard from Adrien, and she had no need to call him. She thought about him at random moments; it hurt. She was used to that.

“Eight weeks,” Élise muttered, laying down pastel on a card.

Before Adrien, a relationship was a layer to her existence, something to add and remove with ease. She could not get him out of her mind. In the evenings, lying on her bed, it felt like only half a home. She missed his jacket on the back of a chair, and there was only one mug on the table when she returned.

Maybe he would bring flowers and say sorry. Maybe he would come here without any warning and sit with her, watching her draw.

She wanted that more than the flowers. If she knew what to say, she would call him.

The Square was busy, and trade was brisk. It would be Easter soon, and even busier. She did three portraits today, and if this continued, she would make two months’ rent in a week. Or, she could save it, give notice, and go somewhere else to start again.

“She’s captured how we love each other,” said a tourist.

The words stung. Élise looked over and stared at it.

They were right, she did see things differently. If so, she could use that and paint watercolours in the provinces. The idea of travelling from village to village appealed to her.

The tourists always melted away close to dinner time, and she ventured back to her studio.

“Mademoiselle…”

She stopped. Only one person called her that - Bernard, her landlord.

Élise turned to face him, “Monsieur Dufayel, is everything all right?”

He nodded and held out his hand; it was a letter.

She frowned.

Bernard jabbed it in her direction, “It’s for you.”

Surprised, uncertain, she flipped the letter front and back. There was no stamp.

Confused, she looked at him, “Hand delivered? Was it a dark-haired man, well-built with grey eyes?”

He smiled with a rogueish expression, “No, and it’s been a lot quieter lately, Mademoiselle.”

She could not make eye contact.

“Less bedsprings,” he added.

That made her cheeks glow. “Then who, Bernard?”

“A woman, about your height, brown hair, and blue eyes,” then he grinned, “pretty, too.”

She gasped. “Oh… well…. thanks.”

In her studio, she set down her things, sat on the bed, and opened it. Folding it out, Élise felt the paper's quality, embossed at the top with the family name. Reading it, her eyes widened, and she read it again.

“Café de Flore,” she whispered, “Sunday 3 pm, sharp. Ask for Madame Deveraux.”

The flourish in ink was her signature at the bottom.

Adrien’s mother.