Work summary: IRL/Original Verso Dessendre x reader, alternate universe where Verso failed to save Alicia. Reader is part of the Musician family.
Everyone knows about the Dessendre family tragedy...
You maybe more so than others. Clea used to be your close friend and now your family is dealing with their own personal loss.
No one has seen the Dessendre family in years until now, at the annual L'exposition Des Familles in Paris, Verso and Clea Dessendre unveil their first new public painting in over 5 years.
Only it's not the painting you're drawn to, it's the man behind the art, the mysterious and sullen Verso Dessendre.
Chapter 1 - Lent et triste
WC: 4k
CW: Death & grief, mourning.
Masterlist - Next
AO3
Enjoy <3
Everyone knows about the Dessendre family tragedy.
Maybe you do more than others.
Rumours and gossip would have you believe it was arson, a plot by The Writers. Officially there was never enough evidence to prove it was anything more than a tragic accident.
They rarely ever leave their mansion nowadays, they spend their time grieving the loss of their youngest daughter and sister. Or maybe they grieve the loss of their passion, their drive to create the beautiful art you grew up seeing.
You look through the gates towards their stunning gilded mansion sitting proud at the end of the road. During the day the sunlight bounces off the curved roofs and makes the whole place look like it’s shining. There’s a reason people call it one of the wonders of Paris.
Even now though the place looks barren, empty, a house but not a home. They keep up appearances, tend to the lawns, repair damages but there’s no love anymore. Just a house and a grave, a shell for the grieving to gather and hide from the reality of loss.
At least they have their paintings to escape to, stunning intricate worlds painted by skilled hands. They haven't painted for the public in years, not since the tragedy. You sigh, turning away from the sadness of the mansion and continue down the road to the city hall.
It’s that time of year again, the L'exposition Des Familles , where the powerful families from all over the world gather to show off their skills and swap stories. When you were a kid you used to enjoy it, now it feels like each year it’s just a painful chore.
This year is going to be the hardest. Your father passed away 8 months ago. It was an accident, a stupid tragic accident, you sigh thinking about him. You didn’t have to walk this route to get to the town hall, you could have avoided the Dessendre mansion but you chose to pass it.
Maybe you understand them now, your family has experienced their own tragedy, they lost a daughter and a sister, your family lost a father, the matriarch. When you left your house the halls were unusually silent. All the musical instruments have already been packed up and taken to the town hall.
As you walk out into the main square the place is already filled with activity. There are temporary stalls set up everywhere. They’ll be selling trinkets, things the families have created to sell. Your brother - who has taken over the role of your father - has spent the last few weeks scribing sheet music to sell.
People are dressed in the traditional white and red garments. That’s always the colour of L'exposition; red and white. It’s supposed to represent the purity of the bloodlines and the sacrifice the families make for the country. You always remember the saying;
‘White is for those who came before, red is for those hoping for more.’
You give white flowers to people who’ve died, red flowers are for happy occasions, marriage’s, birth’s, you give them to people who are moving on with their lives. Your home has been filled with white flowers for months.
You’ll be wearing black today, so will the rest of your family. You’re all in mourning, mourning the death of your father. You grip the handle of your bag tighter as you walk through the promenade. It’s early evening but the sky is already a deep orange, the light shines off the golden domes of the town hall.
You walk down the main strip, looking around at the booths. There are people selling copies of the Painters, paintings. There’s booths selling books and poems from the writers and of course booths selling vinyl’s and sheet music made by your family. People are dancing and singing to the music playing from the bands. The smell of fresh crêpe's and rosted meat fills your nose.
The festival lasts for the whole weekend, a time for people to let their hair down and have fun. They can come and see the spectacles and learn more about the families. The Painters used to be the stars of the show, then The Writers, since the Dessendre family stopped attending The Dancers have risen in the popularity ranks.
Your family was lucky, they’re not as recognisable as the other families. Your papa wanted you to have a normal life, or at least as normal as it could be. He didn’t lap up the celebrity that came with his name like the other families did. He wanted a solitude life especially for you and your brother and sister.
It means you can slip through the crowds to the entrance of the town hall without anyone stopping you. You show one of the security people your ID and they let you through to the main hall. The town hall is beautiful and ornate, huge paintings and accents detail the walls. The victorian architecture is stunning, the way the light shines through the massive floor to ceiling windows makes the place look alive, especially with the way it shines on the many statues.
The building used to be part of a palace once-upon-a-time. You climb the stairs up to where the main hall is. It’s just like you remember, the large open space has been sectioned off in some places where families are setting up their booths. You can see the grand piano pressed into the corner of the room with a black cover over it.
You head towards it walking past the other people in the room. You nod and smile at the only other family already here, the Callamand’s. The Writers, their mother is talking to their oldest son. He looks good, sleek brown hair and brown eyes. You’re not in the mood to talk so you walk over to the piano.
You run your hands over the cover, it’s like you can already feel the power building inside of you. Your papa always told you the power came from you and is projected through the instrument. You can still feel the energy though being pulled from deep within you, it just makes you want to sing.
“You’re here!” You turn to see your sister coming towards you, you accept her hug.
“Where’s frère?” You ask. Breaking from the hug, she’s already dressed in her modest black dress, she turned 18 this year.
“With maman, they’re talking with the Callamand’s.” She rolls her eyes for a second. “You have to see though!” She says excitedly gripping your arm and pulling you through a walled section to the main room.
“You’re not going to believe this.” She says as you both stop. You’re not quite sure what you’re supposed to be looking at it’s a blank wall, the usual paintings have been taken down and stacked to the side. You frown but then it clicks, they’re setting up a platform, they’ve taken the old paintings down - they’re making space.
You let out a gasp squeezing your sisters hand
“The Painters. They’re going to be here.” You say, she nods enthusiastically.
“I think it's just Clea but she’s made a new painting.” Rosaly, your sister says. You would like to see Clea again, it has been years since you’ve had proper contact with her. You look up at the grand clock in the room, the doors will be opening soon. The first day is reserved for the elite of Paris, those who can afford VIP tickets.
Tomorrow will be for the general public, until then they will have their own party in the square and the streets.
“You should get changed.” Your sister says. You nod and she leads you through to another room where you can see her clothes and violin.
“Are you playing tonight?” You ask, you don’t have a choice but your sister does. You know for a fact your mother and brother will not play, they’re here to show face and mingle, you’re here to show off.
“I don’t know, It is strange playing without Papa.” She hangs her head, you nod. Rosaly was very close to your father, she hasn’t played in public since, none of you have but she’s taken it particularly hard she didn’t even want to come today.
You let your sister talk and fill the dead air while you change into your black dress. Your mother picked it out for you, it’s long and flowy with lace and caped sleeves so they won’t get in the way when you’re playing.
Your mother comes to see you when the doors start to open to let people in. You’ll have some time to relax and see the other families' contributions before you will play.
“You both look lovely.” She says, her eyes are still raw and red, she’s holding a hanky in her hand. Your brother Emanuel looks good in his black suit and waistcoat. They both already have white flowers pinned on their clothes.
Your mother comes over to you both and kisses you on the cheek. “Don’t stay back here for too long, you’ll miss the painting.” You smile at her and nod, eyeing your brother as she goes over to your sister.
You smile at him, you’re going to play tonight, for your father.
…
There’s one other family wearing black today; the Dessendre’s. Clea looks beautiful in her sleek black strapless dress, it shows off her curves and clings to her hips. The back is open and her long brown hair cascades down. You secretly hope she spots you in the crowd, it’s nice to see her again, she looks healthy but you can see the age on her face, the paint stook in the deep crevices around her eyes.
She’s left some paint on her fingers, she always loves to do that - it’s part of the show.
An announcer walks up next to her and they kiss each other on the cheeks. Clea is always the professional, she puts on a perfect show, you wouldn’t think their family is still deep in mourning. The announcer steps to the side and starts a speech, talking about Clea’s new painting. You look around ignoring what he’s saying as you watch people soaking in his words.
Then you see him - Verso Dessendre. You haven’t seen him in years, almost as long as Clea, she tried to keep in touch for a while but - well - death, it changes people. He looks taller, his hair is longer, jet black and fluffy. Your eyes are drawn to strand of sliver in his hair, the light illuminates it. He stands back in a black suit, his arms crossed watching his sister talk.
You realise he has a glove on one of his hands and a scar down his face that starts from his forehead and even passes over his eye. He has a beard too, you’ve never seen him with a beard before, it makes him look older then he is. You remember he has blue eyes, you can’t see them from where you’re standing. You remember them though, in the dark they look deep like an endless ocean but in the light they’re like crystals.
You find yourself walking around the back of the crowd towards him. He always seemed so quiet even before the death of Alicia. You remember Clea saying they were close, that Verso was injured by the fire as he tried to save Alicia, it must have been horrible.
Clea starts talking, taking the final words and steps to the side as the curtain is pulled off the canvas. You gasp as the painting is revealed, it’s beautiful. There are gasps and mutters around the room, you turn to see a woman sobbing.
It’s dark, deep grays and blues. It’s a painting of a small lake, there’s stones and a tree on a small island. The sky is dark, moody but the layers of blues make it look like it's moving as the light flows over it. The tree is stunning with hanging lights and thick green branches. There’s a large moon creating low light across the painting.
There’s a girl in the painting too, long red hair. She looks sad, her body is turned halfway. Your eyes flick between Clea and Verso. She didn’t paint this, this is too sad for her work. The crowd starts to step closer to look at the intricacies of the painting, you use the opportunity to walk over to Verso.
You think he’ll move, not let you near him but he doesn’t move. You smile at him holding your hands behind your back. Maybe he recognises you, you’re not sure if he will, you spent more time with Clea instead of him.
You feel nervous for some reason. You look up at him and smile but he keeps his eyes on his sister.
“It’s very beautiful.” You say. He doesn’t turn to look at you.
“Clea is very talented.” He says, you smile, humble as ever just how you remember him.
You lean in a little closer to him. “I know that’s not her work.” You say smiling. He looks down at you, his eyes widen he looks worried for a second, like you're about to expose him.
“I used to be good friends with your sister, before..” You trail off, nothing needs to be said there’s a quiet understanding.
“It’s a sad painting.” He says letting out a sigh.
“Does it have a name?” You ask. He hums, maybe it’s private there was no name announced when the painting was revealed - just who painted it and even that’s a lie. You look back at Clea as she accepts people's praises and condolences. This will be the talk of the city tomorrow, the papers will be plastered with catchy headlines ‘The Painters dramatic return’ or something along those lines.
“I like sad things, there’s beauty in the melancholic. My Papa always told me ‘to make beauty out of despair is the purest form of art.’” You sigh, you miss him, Verso turns to you again.
“I’ve heard that before.” He frowns.
You smile. “My Papa was a very popular man.” There’s a soft ding, and you both look out to the grand piano being wheeled into the centre of the room. Peoples attentions switch from the painting and they look on in awe as the lights are adjusted to shine on the magnificently decorated piano.
Your parents always insisted on supplying their own instruments, this piano usually sits proudly in your main living room, it is almost never quiet. Your family is always working. It’s been polished and re-tuned, the white surfaces are almost as blinding as the raised gold and silver decorations covering the edges. The top is open to show off the intricacies of the inside.
You smile and head towards it, Verso seems confused for a second he takes a step to follow you. You turn back to look at him and smile, he follows you to the edge of the crowd, people part letting you through.
You spy your mother in the crowd, a champagne glass in hand dressed in all black. Verso realises what's happening as you step up to the piano and run your fingers over the pristine white keys. As you sit down you look towards him, he has taken his place in the front of the crowd, you see a small smile on his lips.
It makes your heart skip as the announcer steps up next to the piano, your eyes are still fixed on Verso. The strand of silver hair catches the light, you’re not listening to the announcer, you smile back at him before tuning to look at the piano.
It’s like you can already feel the energy flowing through you as you position your hands on the first keys and your foot on the peddle.
“-Lent Et Triste.” The announcer finishes before stepping away into the crowd. There’s soft clapping echoing around the room, you close your eyes letting out a sigh.
Lent Et Triste - For Papa.
As soon as you start playing the piano feels like it’s alive. You open your eyes to a glow, a glow that extends out from you, it always starts in your heart. Wisps of yellow light flow around you, down your arms and across the piano. You hear people gasp, muttering in awe as the light flows to the centre of the piano.
You look up as the golden strands start to form a scene, above the piano. They take the shape of your father, you feel tears form in your eyes and blink them away as you continue to play. The melody is hauntingly sweet, simple and elegant just like your father. Another strand forms you, as a young child reaching up for him.
His arms lock around yours and he spins you around. Gentle laughter fills the hall as you continue to play, your father spins you around before pulling you into his arms. The strands move again changing to a close up of you and your fathers foreheads pressed together.
You smile at the scene, the memory you’re letting people see. You want to look over at your family but instead you focus on the moment, relishing in seeing your father again even if it is just for a brief period of time. You know the song will be ending soon, the last few bars playing out in your head as the song slows.
The wisps start to fizzle, the scene ends and they begin to come back to you. ‘We play to keep the memories alive,' your fathers voice rings in your head. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears as you play the last few notes letting your fingers rest on the keys for as long as possible.
When clapping and cheering fills the room you open them and look around. Your eyes find Verso first, locking onto him. He’s moved back into the crowd, there’s a sombre look on his face. You stand up and bow, swallowing to get rid of the lump in your throat. When you look back up he’s gone.
You turn looking for your mother, she’s being consoled by your sister. It’s only been 8 months, your mother lost the love of her life. You wonder if you will ever know what that feels like, true unrequited love. You see your mother struggling, she cried at his bedside for hours, and didn't leave her room for days.
Now all the songs she sings are sad, ballads of grief and sorrow, the halls of your mansion are always filled with the sound of tears on the keyboard. You take one last look behind you to see if you can spot Verso, all you can see is his sister. You smile at her, you’ve missed her friendship.
“That was beautiful.” Someone says, you turn to look at the older woman reaching out to grip your hands.
“Thank you.” You say, smiling and squeezing her hands back because that is what you’re supposed to do.
“I was very sorry to hear about your papa.” She says frowning and tipping her head slightly.
“We all were.” You reply and spy your brother in the crowd. She smiles slightly and lets your hands go, you weave through the crowds as you make it over to your brother who has a fist full of white flowers and his hand on your mothers back.
“You did a good job, it was very beautiful, papa would be proud.” He says. He always looks so tired since he took over your fathers roles and responsibilities, he’s the matriarch of the family now and he will be for the rest of his life. He barely plays anymore, you miss his voice filling the halls. He kisses your mother on the head drops his hand gesturning for you to follow him.
“I saw you talking to Verso.” He says once you’re away from the main crowd. You feel heat rushing to your cheeks and you’re not sure why.
“I was complimenting his painting.” You say.
“It was very beautiful.” He hums and stops walking at a window. You look out over the promenade. There are people dancing and musicians playing.
“Did you know they were coming?” You ask him. He shakes his head, you can tell he seems annoyed about that fact. It’s not like your family is extremely close to the Dessendre’s but you would see them for events, they would always host amazing parties. Everything stopped when the accident happened.
“You should stay away from him.” Your brother says suddenly. You look up at him, you can see his deep set eyes with heavy bags. The nervous twitch in his hand, you know he would rather escape for another cigarette. When papa died it was almost like your big brother grew overnight.
“I was just saying hello. It’s been years since we’ve seen them, I just wanted him to know he has a friend.” You say.
“When the time is ready-” He pauses looking back out the window and letting out a sigh.
“Papa always talked about the Callamand family.” You say hanging your head. The Writers, your father always wanted you to be set up with their oldest; Emil. He’s nice you’ve met him a few times before. The Writers live on the other side of Paris you never used to see them as much as the Dessendre’s.
“It would be good to unite our families.” He says.
“What if I fall in love with a commoner?” You say, he sighs.
“Papa loved maman very much-”
“Loves.” You snap, you don't mean to. “He loves her, just like we love her.”
“I kn-”
“Do you? Putain, it's our family.” You raise your voice.
“I’m doing this for the family.” He snaps through gritted teeth, reaching out and gripping your arm. It shocks you, he’s your older brother but he has never spoken to you like this before. You look down at his hand, maybe he can see the shock in your face because he loosens his grip.
He’s never been like this before.
“Papa wanted the best for all of us.” He says letting your arm go.
“Yes, he did.” You reply, you can’t argue with that. You sigh looking up at your brother, your exhausted older brother who would catch you when you fell and be there for you when you needed it. Now he needs you.
“Clea was a good friend. I would like to see her again.” You say. Your brother sighs moving away from the window.
“I can’t stop you from seeing your friend. But stay away from Verso.” He sighs, you nod and rubs the top of your arm.
“You really did well tonight. Will you be coming to the brunch tomorrow?” He asks.
“If I need to.” You say.
"I could use the company." He nods and smiles. He wants you to be there with him, your mother won’t attend, she will stay at home with your sister. He squeezes your arm one more time before walking away and leaving you alone by the window.
You smile watching a group of children in the square dancing in a circle. They remind you of your little sister, one of them has red hair it catches in the light. She’s around the same age Alicia was when the fire happened. It makes you feel sad. You don’t know how you would feel if you lost your younger sister.
You’d probably be more like Verso than you think. Instead of painting your sorrows you’d be singing them instead. You smile thinking of writing a song for Verso, maybe he’ll like that, maybe it will help him heal.
'Stay away from Verso,' your brothers warning rings in your head. You can't help thinking back to the way he looked, the beard, the deep blue eyes and the wisp of silver hair. He's grown, and his painting was beautiful, you wonder what he thought of your music. Maybe you'll ask him, if you see him, you would like to see him again. You look up seeing fireworks pop in the sky, music fills the hall and you turn to see people starting to dance. You should find your family, socialise and thank people for their support over the last few months.
All you can think about is Verso, if there's one thing for sure after tonight - you need to see him again, no matter what anyone says.
the dessendre group. a large conglomerate run by the grieving dessendre family who lost their youngest child, alicia, in a tragic house fire. since alicia's death, aline and renoir have been trying to grow their wealth and power, sending their surviving children on business ventures, verso and clea, in their stead.
you expect that since the dessendre group recently acquired the company you work for, a big overhaul will happen.
what you didn't expect is to fall for their son, verso.
and verso didn't expect he'd fall harder.
[modern!au, office!au]
Click Here for AO3 Link!
hi all! i'm uploading my verso/reader fic, 'ruin, rinse, repeat' in chunks for those who don't use ao3. below the cut is chapters 2 to 5 :)
Chapter 2: farewell
"W-We're going under!?" You exclaim, heart instantly dropping to the pit of your stomach.
"Yes and no… We were going to go under with the rise in AI. I mean, this business was built on the backs of humans, not computers. We refuse to change that as it violates our ethos, however other businesses cannot afford artists and graphic designers in this economy." Maria sighs.
"O-oh god… So are we all…?" You cross your arms against your chest tightly, hoping the pressure steadies your rapidly beating heart.
"No - no. Just me - it's about time I retire anyway. I'm not getting any younger and I've always wanted to see the world…" Maria's brown eyes dart wistfully to the window briefly, before settling on yours again.
"So I'll be keeping my position?" You ask, chewing on your bottom lip in anticipation.
"Yes, Envisager will function as normal, subject to the changes that the Dessendre group make." Maria nods.
"Wait, so we're getting bought out? By the Dessendre group?" Your eyes widen a little.
"They made the best offer and aligned with our ethics the best - Envisager is still profitable, however as times and technology have changed, I simply cannot keep up, and I'm getting tired. I know when to hang my coat up." Maria says solemnly.
"…You're the best boss I've ever had. Please don't forget that, Maria." You smile softly at her, and she returns a big grin in turn.
"I'm so glad I made you team lead. I know you'll do great things and work excellently with the new CEO to make the best decisions possible." Maria reassures.
The four week period rolled around faster than you thought. In a little brasserie, the upper floor shone with brilliant amber lights and shook with laughter.
"To Maria!" You shout, raising your champagne glass, the pale-wheat colour liquid ever so slightly sloshing with the motion of your hand as everyone mimicked the movement.
"To Maria!" The rest of the team echoed back, and on the very rare occasion, you watched Maria shed a tear.
"I cannot believe we actually got bought out. Well… It could've been worse. She could've just shut everything down and we'd all have to scramble for new jobs in this shitty economy." Sciel guffaws, taking a long sip of her champagne. "Ahhh. The taste of being bought by Dessendre group is pretty sweet." She adds in a joking tone.
"I looked at their track record extensively over the last few weeks as soon as word got out that we were bought by them. Honestly? It was the most ideal situation, they've got a lot of connections and they've pivoted businesses like ours before. In my opinion, I believe the new CEO will be one of their children. Aline and Renoir - their parents, are the bigwigs, but they'd never embark on such tasks. They've been handing out these opportunities to their kids instead." Lune chimes in.
"Ohhh, really? I hope we get Clea. I read some interview with her on Paris Post a while back - she seems to run a tight ship and she gets shit done. I like that in a woman." Sciel wiggles her eyebrows and widens her eyes for dramatic effect.
"It could also be Verso Dessendre - I heard Clea takes on the slightly bigger projects. And Verso took a while to recover from that whole fire incident." Lune notes, as if she had studied the Dessendre line like they were a semester final.
"Shame… If it was Clea I'd be swooning." Sciel jokes.
"Whichever person it is, Clea or Verso, ugh, I just hope they're not snobby little rich kids making out of touch changes. Because it's me that has to deal with all of that." You pinch the bridge of your nose, imagining the headache you'd have arguing with someone's entitled, out of touch, rich child.
"Ugh, true. Good luck." Lune gently claps you on the shoulder in jest.
"I'll probably need it…" You groan, taking another long sip of champagne.
"Merde… My fucking head…" You groan as your alarm blares from your phone. Smacking the snooze button, you pull your linen duvet over your head, relishing in the cold, dark comfort of your bed for another 5 minutes. The weekend went by much too fast for your liking.
Black heeled boots clicking on the uneven cobblestone, threatening to throw you off kilter. You head towards the big glass building, ripping your lanyard from your bag as you scan through the gates and head into the elevator.
Impatiently - as is your usual fashion, as soon as the doors opened, you began to repeatedly slam your finger against the 'close' button, tapping your foot on the floor.
As the doors begin to close, you hear a voice call out.
"Yeah, whatever…" You whisper to yourself, folding your arms and stepping back. As you do, a hand shoves between the doors, triggering the sensor. You inwardly groan in annoyance.
"Apologies." A man with jet black wavy hair and an interesting white streak on one side of his hair. His eyes were a striking pale blue - so pale they almost seemed iridescent, but what was even more eye-catching was the faint vertical scar that traversed from the top of his eyebrow, almost down to the middle of his cheek, intersecting with his eye. Despite the obvious scar and the unconventional streak which others may perceive as a flaw, the man was devtastingly handsome. The 'once in a generation' type of handsome, and it was kind of blinding to look at.
"No, honestly my fault. I didn't really hear and I'm desperate to use the toilet." You truthfully admit, smiling sheepishly.
"It's okay, I would probably do the same." He crosses his arms and chuckles a little, and you note how deep his voice is. You also note that he is not pressing another floor's button. In no way…
"Guess we're both going to the same floor then, but I've never seen you around." You comment, trying to sneakily confirm your suspicion.
"Ah yep - first day on the job." He nods. So this man is probably Verso Dessendre, the new CEO.
"Oh… You're Maria's replacement then?" You ask in a tentative tone.
"That would be me. Correct." He replies, and you notice he's a man of few words. His tone isn't rude or flippant, his replies are just short. Borderline curt.
"I see." You nod, as the doors open and you both begin to walk.
"So you are…?" Verso asks, trailing off. You give him your name as you pull out your lanyard again.
"And you?" You ask him as you scan your tag to deactivate the office security, quickly punching in the alarm code. The grey silicone buttons feel particularly mushy under the pad of your index thumb today.
"The name's Verso." Verso replies. You already know that, but you nod and pretend it's the first time you've heard of his name anyway.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Verso." You nod in acknowledgement as the fluorescent lights flicker to life.
"So it is Verso then. Dammit." Sciel pouts playfully, stabbing her wooden fork into her caesar salad.
"I wish it wasn't, but not for the same reasons as Sciel. Verso doesn't really do interviews nor does he have a lot of media coverage on him… He's harder to predict in terms of what he might do." Lune taps her chin, deep in thought.
"He seems… Fine? I guess? He's been inside his office since this morning when the day started. He doesn't talk much, if anything." You shrug.
"Weeell, I did stalk your calendar. Keep us updated on how your meeting with him at the end of the day goes." Lune lowers her volume by a few decibels to avoid being overheard in the cafe, just in case anybody from work is nearby.
"Since we haven't seen him much, I'm going to assume it's okay. I feel like if he were a massive asshole, he would've caused a scene by now." You deduce.
"Maybe, but also you know how these kinds of people are. They might just make some quiet, subtle changes, and before you know it… They replace us all with their own cronies and such." Sciel sighs.
"As team lead, no fucking way would I let that happen to you guys. No. Fucking. Way." You reassure them. You look down at your watch and gasp. "Shit - gotta go, I've got a meeting about that mural in the community arts district with the local council." You add, bidding them goodbye.
The rest of your way day goes by in a blink. You stare at your online calendar, the little red bar hovering just above the little blue block titled 'CEO and team lead meeting'. You sigh, packing your items before walking over to the door.
It felt weird approaching the door, knowing that Maria was no longer going to be in there. You softly knock, and hear a muffled "come in" from the other side.
Stepping in, the first thing you notice is the deep warm and wooden tones. It didn't feel cold or unapproachable, but it felt darker, moodier… More intense. He must've made these changes rather quickly over the weekend.
"Hello again." You greet, striding over as Verso gestures to a chair facing his large oakwood executive desk. That was also new. Maria loved the light and bright scheme - she was all about pops of colour, sheer white curtains, and birch wood tones. It's like Verso almost inverted the place.
"Hi - take a seat." He greets, clicking off his computer for a moment.
"So… Did you have anything in particular you wanted to discuss?" You begin, kicking your legs crossed underneath your seat.
"Hmm, a few. We'll jump right into it." He says, and you suppress a quirk of your brow. He is nothing like Maria and it sucks. Maria was all about opening with a chat and being genuinely interested in how people are doing - Verso was straight to business, seemingly cut and dry, uninterested in his coworkers. You purse your lips in the hopes that a rude comment doesn't fly out of them.
"Sure." You nod.
"So, as we know, AI is taking over plenty of creative's jobs. Envisager is in a very unique situation, where you've all fostered connections with several industries, including the gaming and food industry, alongside local government collaborations. It's a great multi-pronged approach, however, as costs rise, well… It'll get tougher. I say we focus on our niche supplying artistic talent to the gaming and local government industries, but there's so many food packaging businesses that are using AI now, so the field is much less lucrative. I think there's no point and we will pull the plug. Thoughts?" Verso asks. You hold your breath - Sciel was in the midst of securing a deal for a major food chain, if this goes, she'll lose such a huge project…
"Hold off on the food packaging for a moment; we've got someone securing a deal with Bun and Grill, they're a significant food chain and it'll bring a great deal of revenue." You express.
"Bun and Grill are big, but they are not consistent with their partnerships. They could use Envisager today, and another company tomorrow. We need more stable partners." Verso replies.
"I see. However we will lose a few big projects doing this, which can decrease our revenue short term. This is quite risky, you know? At least they should complete those negotiated stints." You reply, feeling a little prickly under the collar now.
"That's another thing, team size is relatively small but there are a few things we can do to up productivity, such as internships." Verso adds, and you barely suppress your sigh.
"That's… Complex. Internship also requires training students to a degree, and we'd not be doing it at an extra cost. Not for the employees who take those students on at least, the money that comes from universities will not be seen by them directly." You argue. He had a good point, but something about his suggestions and turning Maria's office upside down just really seemed to get to you…
"And how would you propose we move forward then, team lead?" Verso asks. Did he just use your title instead of your name…?
"We need all the connections we can get as we transition through this, and our team is so small, I don't think we're equipped to deal with narrowing our scope so suddenly. Instead of internships, we should actually do graduate programs. Build our numbers so that people don't end up in a scope they're not passionate about." You reply, folding your arms.
"That's good, but, we need to think about revenue and how we can keep people paid." Verso says, tapping his fingers against the heavy oakwood surface.
"We're going to cut the ties with a few industries - food and product design first. Internship is good - it's less labour and a good experience for the team. I'll consider your other suggestions at a later point in time." Verso acknowledges, and you feel like combusting into a million pieces across his moody little office.
"Okay… Listen. I understand that this company is in an odd spot and I'm sure you've got plenty of experience, but as team lead, I'm the one on the ground a lot of the time. I've known our employees for years, and they're loyal to this company for a reason. With all due respect, this is a massive, massive jump to something entirely new. You're going to throw them into the deep end without a lifebuoy and it's concerning me." You can't help but blurt out.
"If they're good employees and worth their salt, they can overcome change." Verso quips back.
"Yes but you can't be a good employee if you're not supported well enough! You're only as good as your management." You sigh, trying to calm yourself.
"Perhaps you and Maria have been quite soft - if we don't adapt, we don't overcome. Business is much more brutal than it ever has been in these times." Verso says, and you swear there is a condescending tone in that voice. It's fucking pissing you off.
"But does it matter if we're soft? That's what makes this place good to work for. Sure, we're small. But when you walk into the office, you don't feel like your life force is draining the moment you set foot in here. Increasing revenue is equally as important to show your face and ask your employees how they're doing." You avoid his gaze as you slam your mouth shut after that last sentence.
"Right… Perhaps this meeting didn't go as predicted. I understand that I am making some big changes and they're not what you'd expect. Maybe cool off and we can discuss strategies in future." Verso says, rising from his executive black leather seat and coolly striding towards his door, holding it open for you. You narrow your eyes ever so slightly at him, wordlessly walking out and not glancing back.
Entitled, ignorant fucking asshole.
Chapter 3: the office window
"Fuckkkkk. Glad you didn't get fired after that." Sciel's hand flies to her mouth as you debrief the girls over coffee at lunch the next day.
"I'm just sorry I couldn't get him to hold off on making the decisions until after you secured the gig with Bun and Grill." You apologise to Sciel. Ever the gentle and kindhearted woman, she shakes her head with a small smile.
"Not your fault, it would've really helped get mine and the companies' name out there a little more, but we'll never know now… You went above and beyond for me and I appreciate it." Sciel reaches over, squeezing your hand reassuringly.
"Well, we just don't know him well, do we? Maybe we've misunderstood him." Sciel pauses.
"He could be dealing with a lot of merger matters. I mean, while he's made some changes that really go against what we know, it's not like they're unforgivable." Lune adds.
"I don't know, it's a slippery slope." You sigh.
"It's hard when we don't really know him and he doesn't really know us at all, right? I didn't see his face once around the office. He's cooped up in there all the time. We need to approach this change carefully…" Lune comments, her eyes beginning to glaze over as you assume she's gone to her 'mind palace' to scheme.
"He's probably just fucking jacking off looking out the office window." You snort.
…
"Ah shit, I'm running late…" Lune taps her foot at the printed.
"You all good?" You ask her, plucking a hot laminated sheet from your fingertips as you quickly drop it onto the table.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Stupid thing keeps jamming. I can come back to it but I've got a meeting in 5." Lune grumbles.
"Go on - I'm laminating stuff, I'll keep an eye on it while you attend." You say, slotting another sheet of paper into the glossy sleeve.
"You're the best." Lune smiles, quickly dashing out of the room.
You're left with only the hum of the laminator machine processing another sheet and the stuttering of the copier. You flick the machine off and walk towards the copier, sighing.
"No wonder it got freaking stuck… Who just shoves sheets in the tray this way?" You whisper to yourself, attempting to pry the jagged stacks of A4 copy paper from the tray. The papers begin to fray as you wrestle and wiggle with it some more, but with some luck…!
"Merde." You groan, paper flying everywhere. You smooth your trousers with your hands as you lower to your hands and knees, attempting to gather the paper that flung everywhere on the floor. In the midst of grappling with all the stray copy paper, you hear footsteps pass the room. Craning your neck ever so slightly, you see him. Verso. Maybe it's a trick of the light or just your tired vision, but you swear you saw him looking at you. Either way, instead of helping, he walks right past the copy room and you hear the door shut. You roll your eyes, muttering another expletive under your breath about the man.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Your office chat suddenly roared to life for the first time since Maria left. You sigh, clicking on the notifications.
'Team Building Evening - Friday. (Invite sent by Verso Dessendre)'. Huh. Maybe he did listen to you, even if it was just a little?
Ping.
'When you have a moment please come see me in my office' (Sent by Verso Dessendre - 4:07pm). Fucks sake.
'Sure, will be over in a moment' you quickly type, shutting your laptop.
You softly rap your knuckles against the door, his low voice hummed in acknowledgement as you opened the door.
"You wanted to see me?" You ask.
"Yeah. We've got a big meeting with a gaming company that I need your attendance on." Verso replies.
"Okay." You reply, unsure of what else to say. Surely that could've been sent as an email?
"Along with this, I've decided you'll be in charge of the internship agreements with a handful of universities." Verso instructs. Fucking asshole.
"Hmm…" You think over your next words carefully.
"Perhaps once you're involved you can see my vision for how this can work. If it's unsuccessful, then we won't do it the following year. As team lead, this role is best suited for you." Verso adds.
"Okay. I trust in your decision and I will facilitate this to the best of my ability." You nod, placing your hands in your lap to fight the urge to throw his stupid name plaque at his stupid head.
"Pleased to hear it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fucking jack off looking out the office window." Verso almost snarls out his last sentence, and you feel like your heart dropped so fast you've practically just shit it out on the seat.
"…Have fun with that." You can't help but quip back, hoping you didn't give away that you squirmed a little under his intense gaze.
"Ha! That's so good. Like, it's actually a miracle he hasn't fired you for that. You're a cat with 9 lives." Claude snorts, flinging his arm around the back of your couch.
"I'm a fucking idiot! Oh my god." You sigh, speeding up the dicing of your onions.
"Careful - you might just take your finger off." Claude warns playfully.
"Shhh, that's the secret ingredient to this meal." You joke, now mindfully slowing down.
"Should be a rich person's finger in there. Eat the rich!" Claude snorts.
"Real. The Dessendre's are like every other rich fucking asshole - he definitely just sees us all as dispensable. I think he's only putting up with my shit because I'm leverage; I keep the company morale up, if I'm replaced too fast, I'm sure it'd all crumble too soon. I probably need to start looking for a new job…" You sigh. You really didn't want to leave.
"Probably. Maybe you can start your LinkedIn influencer career and like, start posting photos of yourself crying or having profound revelations about people living with a disability." Claude jokes.
"Oh my god yes - did you see that one guy who made the post on his LinkedIn who said that talking to a blind woman was 'groundbreaking for his business skills' and that 'people with disabilities are human too'? Fucks sake, talk about patronising and shallow." You spend the early evening babbling even more nonsense with Claude before he heads home after dinner.
Ah shit - tomorrow is the 'team building event' at the bar.
Chapter 4: going to the bar is not a team building activity!
"It's kind of evil that this got held on a Friday evening after work. Feels just like work after work." Sciel comments, and you nod.
"To be fair, we did say that we barely see Verso's face around, so I guess we shouldn't complain." Lune chimes in.
"I'd prefer to see less of his face right now. I feel like that's such a waste of good looking genes, he's impossible to work with." You comment absentmindedly.
"Did you just say he's good looking?" Sciel raises a brow.
"Huh? Like, objectively. Anyone with eyes would agree." You blink owlishly. Sciel and Lune just stare back at you for a moment.
"Like, true, but…" Sciel trails off.
"I'm surprised you'd admit that out loud. You almost never acknowledge when someone is good-looking." Lune finishes.
"Wait - no. That's absolutely not it. At the risk of being overheard again - I'm just saying the personality is a shame when you factor in the looks." You whisper to them both.
"Huh? Overheard again?" Sciel asks.
"Yep... The other day when I made a joke about him looking out the office window and jacking off, he repeated the line back to me, verbatim." You recount with a guilty look plastered on your face.
"Merde, that was stupid." Lune makes a sound that is halfway between a scoff and a chuckle.
"Really stupid - I'm so about to get fired once the dust settles." You groan.
"It's not too late, maybe you could apologise to him about it on Friday? If you're going to get fired, you've got almost nothing to lose if you say sorry." Sciel suggests.
"…Putain. Yeah I suppose." You bite your lip.
"Maybe something like 'sorry for calling you a wanker!' would be good - short and sweet." Sciel jokes.
"Aaaaah! God I'm such a mess." You sigh, burying your head into the cafeteria table as Lune lightly pats your shoulder in comfort.
Friday. 4:59pm.
"Maybe I shouldn't go…" You whisper to yourself, wanting to back out of the arrangement, but as team lead, it wouldn't be a good look.
Shrugging on your cardigan, you step out of the building and breathe in the crisp evening spring air and… Oh god, the fuck is that smell?
Which asshole threw up on the side of the street!? Your heels click away from the vile odor - the funky stench from the chuck-up practically acted as smelling salts and made you walk even faster to the bar than you had originally hoped to.
Walking in, you see Lune and Sciel are already perched at the bar. Your eyes scan the room a little more intently, and you notice Verso off to the side with a whisky on the rocks in hand. Typical toxic male manipulator ass drink…
"One gin and tonic, please." You ask the bartender before slotting in between Lune and Sciel.
"Ahhh, long time no see!" Sciel playfully greets.
"So, planning on apologising to him tonight?" Lune asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"Urgh… Yeah just need a drink or two first…" You groan.
"It's like I can see you dragging your feet on this, but like, mentally." Sciel observes.
"I don't wanna apologise to him! I mean I should, but I don't wanna!" You're aware that you sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum at this point.
"It's okay… You're equally as passionate about the company, your perspectives and approaches are just different. And that's ok!" Sciel reassures as the bartender slides your drink over to you.
"That's a very nice way of putting it, I suppose." You shrug, briefly turning back to see that Verso's eyes were already settled on you. You can't help but gulp down another huge swallow of your drink.
As the night went on, the sky quickly turned from dusk to dark, the amber streetlamps lining the Paris streets illuminated the reflections in the windows of the bar.
"You're now two and a half drinks in… Any more in the same hour and you'll just throw up on his shoes. Come on. You've got this, you're a big girl." Sciel encourages you with a playful nudge.
"Yup, okay yup, fine…" You sigh, clutching your drink in hand as you approach Verso sitting in a small group with other employees.
"Heya!" Amelie, one of your coworkers greets.
"Hi! Sorry, just weaving through trying to say hello to everyone before I forget." You smile.
"Oh of course!" Amelie nods.
"Actually, while I've spotted you, Verso… I just need to check something with you about, uh, something." You add, trying your best not to look sheepish.
"Yeah, sure… I'll be back." Verso flashes a small robotic smile to the group as he gets up, wordlessly following you as you both step out onto the secluded balcony. The spring evening air sends a chill up your spine, and you wrap your cardigan around your body a little tighter.
"So, uh… About the other day." You begin, clearing your throat.
"Right." Verso replies, the same unwavering husky and low tone he always uses.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I let my emotions and feelings get the better of me and I carelessly made a harmful comment. I'm sorry." You purse your lips, forcing yourself to stare into his eyes. He blinks. Once. Twice.
"Thank you for acknowledging that." He says, turning away from you as he looks out onto the view of the balcony.
"I'd say you're welcome but that feels… Wrong to say." You awkwardly respond.
"You need to trust that I know what to do to pull this business off the collision course." Verso replies, disregarding your awkwardness.
"…Yeah. I know we're equally passionate about the company but we have different preferred methods. You're at the helm. I shouldn't be like this towards my own team member, especially my own boss. I promise I'll do better going forward." You mimic some of what Sciel said in your response - oh how you loved your emotionally mature friend.
"I appreciate it." Verso replies - dry and disengaged as ever. You try your best to ignore his tone and try to connect with him further to make things less awkward (thank you liquid courage).
"I have a slightly absurd question that isn't related to business whatsoever for you." You ask him, gripping one hand on the balcony railing to hide the fact that you're starting to sway a little in your shoes.
"What is it?" Verso humours you.
"Do you believe in aliens?" You ask, with full serious intent.
"…Huh?" Verso blinks in confusion. For the first time, he looks like he just responded like a normal human being.
"Like, do you believe in aliens? Other forms of life?" You ask him, hoping to get a response that is past the short sentences he typically gives.
"Haha, um… Personally? I think there's no way we live in this vast universe all by ourselves. There is definitely extra-terrestrial life out there." Verso indulges you - maybe it's the few glasses of whisky he had, but he actually indulged your question. For some reason, it made your chest feel a little fluttery, which was weird.
"Right? I often think that maybe they're trying to communicate or they already have, it's just that we might not even see them or pick up on their methods to communicate." You agree. "D'you reckon they'd be bald or have hair?" You add, almost stumbling as you pivot to look at him.
"You're drunk." He scoffs, but he doesn't have a mean bite to his tone. You swear you even saw a flicker of an actual grin.
"You're at least equally as drunk for humouring me on that topic." You chuckle, taking another long sip of your drink before beginning to almost stumble walk off.
"You don't seem to be looking over your shoulder too much on this sunny Monday. Seems the apology worked?" Lune notes, and you nod.
"Honestly, I was not that smooth with it though. I updated my resume over the weekend." You reply.
"Really? Did you like, throw your drink in his face after you apologised?" Sciel asks jokingly.
"Might as well have. Maybe I should've talked to him only one drink in. I asked him if he believes in aliens." You take a bite of your sandwich.
"No you didn't." Lune shoots an 'are you serious' look.
"I did…" You reply pathetically.
"That's… Wow. It was nice knowing you." Lune stifles a laugh.
"I mean, I was drunk! He probably was too." You throw your hands in the air.
"You can only hope…" Sciel comments, unscrewing her water bottle and taking a sip.
"Ahhh, it's whatever. If I'm fired, Maria will vouch for my resume anyway. I have a meeting with the man and our stakeholders in 10, so I'm gonna head off." You sigh, packing up your lunch bag.
"Goodbye and good luck!" Sciel waves.
...
The cool metal of your laptop sizzles against the warm skin of your palm, as you push the meeting room door open. Verso was the only other one in the room - indicating both your affinity for being early.
"Oh, no one else is here yet?" You shut the door quietly, staring at the desk. Would it be awkward to sit right next to him? Is it weirder if you sit directly opposite? You could sit on the edge but then you'd be at the head of the table - wait, why isn't he just sitting at the head of the table? That would make things so much easier…
"We're a bit early. You can take a seat on this side of the table." Verso replies, barely glancing your way as he clicks away on his laptop, yet somehow he still reads your mind.
You slide the upholstered chair 1 seat away from Verso and take a seat - not awkward enough that you're sat directly next to each other, but not so far away that it's giving 'you're a leper to me'.
"I didn't realise we'd have a stakeholder meeting so soon. Is there anything you need me to quickly read up on?" You ask.
"No, it's okay. I'll be leading it, I invited you and the other team leads so you all have a firsthand recount of the first meeting, so that we can brainstorm afterwards." Verso replies. You nod.
"…How was your weekend, anyway?" You ask offhandedly, opening your laptop to try and ease the awkwardness. The clock ticks a few times, filling in the silence. Just as you're about to turn away, he replies.
"Spent it mostly recovering from Friday's hangover. I wanted to sleep in, but I have a very demanding dog that likes to wake me up at 5:50am, almost like clockwork." He says, a very small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he mentions his dog.
"I didn't know you had a dog!" You gasp excitedly.
"Two, actually. Monoco and Noco. Monoco is the father." Verso explains, his pale blue eyes softening talking about his dogs. You notice very subtle changes in his facial expressions when he's talking about Monoco and Noco. For a moment, it almost seems like Verso is a completely different person. Human.
Before you can get another word in, the door opens and you spot Amelie and Minh - the other team leads. You all exchange a little wave with each other, as more people begin to fill in. As stakeholders arrive and nobody from the team is left, you're forced to shuffle up and sit right next to Verso anyway, making your over-thought seating arrangement completely redundant.
"Thank you everyone for attending this meeting, firstly, I'd like to acknowledge everyone's attendance for the day. This is the first stakeholder meeting to be held since the Dessendre Group's acquisition of Envisager…" Verso begins, and your eyes flicker down, staring at his forearms.
You don't know much about Verso - you're unsure of what he does in his free time, unlike Maria who often talked about her love of marathon running and yoga. But his forearms were objectively large, with defined veins. It makes you wonder what kind of sports he does to have such muscular and large forearms. Your eyes roam over his hands, following the contours of his arm veins until they were hidden by the rolled sleeves at his elbows.
"…Which is why we have taken such an approach. I'd like to extend this opportunity for stakeholders to voice their thoughts, feedback, and concerns." Verso concludes. Ah. You realise you haven't even been listening. Your gaze flicks back to Verso's face in the corner of your vision, before you look towards the stakeholder who began discussing proposed targets and milestones.
…The meeting was admittedly boring as shit, but you forced yourself to listen, as you needed to advocate for your team.
"Alrighty, team-leaders and managers, let's discuss." Verso concludes as the stakeholders had all officially left the room and were escorted out. The main topic of the discussion was the revenue target and how cutting costs is now inevitable. What you weren't prepared for, is how easily almost everybody rolled over to Verso almost immediately, even when you could see in their eyes that they didn't want exactly agree with everything said.
"Sorry, I do have some reservations." You pipe up, as Amelie finishes a sentence praising Verso's decision to skim a small amount of employees.
"Of course." Verso says, leaning his palms back on the desk, arms outstretched. His eyes were practically burning holes into yours as you speak.
"I understand that in order to survive, we need to make cuts. But I'm worried about the sustainability of our workload when we do not have interns to rely on for the smaller tasks, as they will likely be handballed to other employees who will then have increased responsibility, yet their pay remains the same. I think this could drive a lot of our current and reliable team members." You state, and you notice Minh avert his gaze.
"I see your concern; what I would like to do is take on interns and also create a new graduate program. A lot of young people in Paris are struggling to get their foot in the door, especially when it comes to more creative or business pursuits. This gives them a chance to gain experience, while we save costs with salary. According to our files, Envisager has not employed a new graduate in the last 2 years. I think it would be an excellent opportunity to give the new generation of Paris' workforce a chance." Verso explains, and you bite your lip. He did have a good point - an excellent point even, about giving young workers a chance. But the cynicist in you does not cease its voice. 'He's probably going to hand all of these positions to the rich brats of families that have their fingers in the pie. This is how it starts.' You think to yourself.
"…Okay. I'm saddened to hear we'll need to be letting a few people go. I am excited to hear about the graduate program plan though." You speak honestly and earnestly. Amelie gives you a look as if to tell you you're committing career suicide.
"I hear you and I understand. It's always tough, however to the people we are letting go, we will write an excellent letter of recommendation under the group's name, and they will of course be paid severance pay as standardised by French law." Verso nods. You can't help but think to yourself that this is fucked up - it's the same brutal corporate playbook everyone plays. Nobody who actually needs their foot in the door will get this position. It grinds your fucking gears. You stare at him, a hint of discontent in your gaze. He stares back with a pokerface, but you swear you feel it. You can't prove it, but you know he's displeased with you.
Forget wanting to get to know him better. Forget trying to see if there is an ounce of humanity under his perfectly styled hair and corporate armour. This guy fucking sucks.
"Could you look over my resume?" You ask Claude, who nods. The paper makes a soft, scratchy noise as you yank it off your desk, handing it to your brother.
"You're going to leave for sure then?" Claude asks.
"I plan on it. Just letting the dust settle. I'm just a bit over it all - he wants to cut smaller roles and would be offloading that work onto our already small enough team, and won't pay them more. In fact, nobody is getting paid more even with all of these structural changes." You sigh.
"It's shit isn't it?" Claude hums in acknowledgement as he plucks a red marker from your coffee table, circling a few things as you place dinner down on the table.
"So… What do you think?" You ask.
"I circled a few changes, but, yeah. Looks good to go." Claude responds. As you're both about to settle down at the table, you hear a ping from your phone.
'Hi, it's Verso. I hope you don't mind that I'm texting you outside of business hours on your personal number, but it's not really work related. I thought about what you said in our meeting earlier today. I think we have a few differences and it's not resolving the way we'd like. Maybe we should have a chat away from the office environment during the lunch break period tomorrow?' You read Verso's text. Perfect grammar, syntax and all. Was this man ever not stiff?
"What's up?" Claude asks, his mouth stuffed with your famous rocket, walnut, and honeyed pear salad.
"Verso texted me." You say in a suspicious tone.
"Huh? That's so demanding. It's 7pm and he's texting you?" Claude raises a brow as you type a response.
'hi Verso, that's fine but I'd prefer to not make it a habit. I can come find you in your office when I'm heading to lunch and we can chat' you reply, turning your phone face down and on silent.
"What's going on?" Claude asks.
"He wanted to see me during break. Says we have differences and it's not resolving the way we're both hoping." You breathe out.
"Ooooh putain. You're getting fired." Claude snorts, but you can see the sympathy for you in his eyes.
"Thank god." You snort, putting on a brave front. But on the inside, you're freaking the fuck out.
Chapter 5: a cat with nine lives
It feels almost routine now. Knock on Verso's office door, enter, have a passive-aggressive verbal exchange, leave. Ruin it. Rinse and repeat.
"Come in." Verso replies to your knock.
"You… Wanted to see me?" You ask.
"Yes, but let's head downstairs and to a cafe." Verso says, grabbing his coat as you walk together. You catch a glimpse of your reflections in an opposite glass-panelled building as you both head to a nearby cafe, walking side by side. Verso is about a head taller than you, his posture straight and imposing, while you're a little bit slouched. Upon seeing this, you straighten your back as you direct your gaze to the street again. Your mind begins to swirl with anxious thoughts as you both walk in silence, the sound of the busy business district as many workers come out in droves to purchase their lunch serving its purpose to muffle the awkward silence between you both.
'So this is it - I'm going to be fired. Fuck. Even worse, he's definitely going to eviscerate the shit out of me verbally to the point where he doesn't want other employees to be around and hear how-'
"Putain!" Verso shouts, grabbing you by the waist and arm as a truck barely skims past your body. You fall backwards at the excessive force, the back of your head tumbling into his chest.
"Holy fuck!" You gasp, glaring at the speeding truck that continued to drive off with total disregard for the pedestrian crossing. You look down and see Verso slightly grimacing as he lifts his head from the pavement.
"Are you okay?" He asks, pale blue eyes looking up into yours. His black waves were fanned out, a thin sheen of sweat threatening to break through on his forehead.
"Y-Yes! I'm fine - but you hit your head pretty hard… I-I think I should take you to a hospital." You panic.
"I-I'm fine…" Verso groans, sitting up, and you quickly scramble off of his body.
"No, no - my father had a stupid accident falling backwards on our patio and he had an awful concussion which could've killed him if we didn't take him to the hospital. No way, I'm not killing my fucking boss." You say, frantically flagging down a taxi.
"I'll call admin and they'll reschedule our meetings. I'm not taking any chances." You add. Verso looks as if he's about to protest as the taxi pulls up, but decides to keep his mouth shut.
"…You're in extreme luck. It shouldn't be a long wait, about half an hour." The hospital desk staff confirm, and you nod as you both take a seat.
"I'm sorry. I'm sure you were going to fire me back then, but even if you weren't, you should probably do it now." You sigh, clutching your arms around your chest in defeat.
"Fire you? I don't plan on firing you at all." Verso chuckles.
"…Really?" You ask in a small voice, looking at him from the corner of your eye.
"Really. It takes all kinds of people to make up a team. If I'm surrounded by a bunch of yes-men, it makes it difficult to know if I'm truly making the correct decision or not." Verso explains, and you nod silently in response.
"I really don't mean to cause trouble... I can become really attached and I struggle to let go. I can be resistant to change, because I can't always help bringing my personal morals into it." You sigh.
"Don't speak about it like it's a bad thing. It's not a bad thing." Verso gently chides, and you can only nod in response again, unsure of what else to say.
"…I'm really sorry you got hurt saving me." You blurt out, uncomfortable with the lapse of silence.
"Well, for starters, I don't want one of my employees dying. Plus, I don't want to watch someone die in front of me again." Verso almost mumbles the second half of his sentence, but you hear it. Your body goes rigid as you think back to the news report on TV in 2023.
"I… Yeah. That's traumatising as hell. I'm surprised you recovered and began working full-time again so quickly. In your shoes, I'd imagine it would put a lot of stress on you, both psychologically and physically." You mumble, kicking your feet.
"It was. …It is. My sister, Clea, is the stronger one out of the two of us. She's trying to find the people responsible for Alicia's death, whilst turning major profits on all these new projects our parents are handing us. I don't know how she's keeping her head above water. In fact I think she's swimming against the tide just fine." Verso admits, and you hear a tinge of sadness in his voice.
"Burying your head in a vendetta and work can put up a strong front, but it doesn't make you strong. The whole situation was fucked up, and you saw the most of it. And that doesn't go away after the event is over, because grief is an ocean that hits you in waves. Plus, our body keeps the score when it comes to trauma." You empathise, drawing on your own experience of grief.
"…The body definitely keeps the score. I never used to have white in my hair, and I'm only 28. Doctors said it was a stress response, my hair won't ever return to normal." Verso says in a low voice. Before you could say more, a doctor called his name out.
"I'll stay here. I'll write up the injury for our report and I can get us back to the office if you're fit to work." You reassure him, and he nods with a grateful expression.
"Just a mild concussion. I was told to rest tonight and tomorrow, and if I don't have any symptoms the following day then I can go to work." Verso explains to you as you get up out of your seat.
"Merde - I think my phone slipped out when I was getting checked out, I'll quickly run back and ask them." Verso touches his pockets before walking over to the clinicians.
You walk over to the admin desk to confirm your departure.
"Hello - who was it for again?" The woman smiles.
"Verso Dessendre." You reply.
"Ah, yup. If you could just sign here…" The woman hands you a clipboard. You see some information pre-filled by the woman.
"Oh - um, can I get a new form? I-I'm not his wife…" You request awkwardly. Just as you mention the last sentence, Verso appears by your side again. You can't help but feel a little red in the cheeks for some reason. The woman apologetically hands you a new form, and you scribble 'coworker' in the title box. You both thank them again, walking out.
If Verso overheard the wife thing, you're grateful, since he didn't mention it as you walked out of the hospital.
"You need to get home - but I'm just worried something could happen to you on the way there. Is it ok if I take you home?" You ask, voicing your concerns, but also internally smacking yourself in the head for using the phrase 'take you home'.
"Yeah, okay. I do feel a bit shit." Verso nods, and you flag down another taxi. Verso gives the address to his apartment, a 12-minute ride away from the hospital.
"I swear I'm not trying to fob off work. I promise." You say as the taxi rolls to a halt.
"You sure about that?" Verso jokes as you both step out of the taxi.
"Haha - okay maybe I'm trying to fob off work a little. I'll do overtime tomorrow." You admit with a grin.
"Hmm, I'm not even there to watch you. How can I be so sure?" He jokes, swiping his key card as you into the foyer of the luxury penthouse complex. The foyer had a beautiful old school black and white harlequin floor tiles, with gold accents throughout the foyer. It appears the complex kept the original materials and maintained the panels, resulting in a blend of 1920's opulence with modern technology camouflaged throughout. Ugh, rich people.
"Uhh, you can just trust me?" You say in a playful tone.
"Yeah alright. Sounds good." He jokes in a deadpan manner.
"Alright, well, I should get going. Oh - wait." You pause, rummaging through your bag as you fish out a small box of paracetamol and electroytes mix. "I overheard one of the nurses earlier talk about paracetamol and electrolytes so you can recover faster. Thanks again for saving my life, bye bye!" You wave, as Verso gives a small wave back in return.
Verso stared at the box of paracetamol and electrolyte mix, a small grin ghosting across his mouth.
"Hey! You were gone for so long. So what happened? It must've been bad if you were gone for ages…" Sciel walks over as we all pack up for the day.
"Yeah, I was gone for like almost three hours. But anyway, I'm not fired." You confirm.
"Are you still gonna like, quit?" Sciel pouts.
"Hmm, no. As long as the changes don't turn the place into a sinking ship, I'll stay." You confirm.
"You're staying?" Lune pokes her head around the corner as you and Sciel begin to make your way to the corridor.
"For now." You nod.
"What made you change your mind? You seemed to really hate it before." Sciel pushes the elevator door button closed as the three of you have the little space to yourselves.
"Erm - well, he was quite convincing. He said he wants people with diverse opinions to make sure he's making well thought-out decisions." You explain, trying to dance around the main event.
"I feel like you're not telling us everything…" Sciel trails off.
"Oh my god - did he threaten you? Blackmail you? He didn't lay his hands on you, right?" Lune gasps.
"No way! No, no. Ugh… I almost got hit by a speeding truck on the way to the cafe, he pulled me back onto the street but I fell ass backwards underneath him and he got a mild concussion from the impact." You explain, looking at your black boots, refusing to look Sciel and Lune in the eye.
The two girls burst out into laughter as the elevator door opens, with the few people in the office complex lobby looking at the three of you as if you've gone mad.
"Shhh! It's already embarrassing enough just thinking about it. I could've fucking killed our boss!" You scream-whisper, which only makes Lune and Sciel laugh even harder as you walk out onto the street.
"Fucking hell, you are a cat with nine lives!" Sciel hollers.
"Wait - but you were gone for three hours? Did you take him to the hospital then?" Lune deduces.
"Yeah, wasn't a long wait. I also made sure he got back home - he's not really that far from work." You shrug.
"You know, you only hear of this type of stuff in a romance novel." Sciel snorts.
"Oh god - no. Guys I am seriously not an unprofessional person." You shake your head insistently.
"Yeah but… Hot, young, likely single CEO. If you guys slept together… Your secret is safe between the three of us." Sciel giggles.
"Genuinely - I didn't sleep with him. I swear on my maman's life. Almost died, hospital, escorted him back. That's all." You frown.
"Okay, okay… We'll stop teasing. I do think it's funny that you really assume there's no tension between you both though." Lune says in a more gentle tone.
"Yeah, like, angry tension. Not sexual. Our approaches to things are usually inverted versions of each other." You insist.
"Yep, right… Definitely no sexual tension." Sciel exchanges a look with Lune.
You groan as the girls continue to playfully tease you. Deep down the teasing didn't matter that much to you - it even made your ears turn a little pink.
Summary : It's so romantic of Verso to want to teach you how to play the piano. But this strange dream… Is it just a meaningless dream, or does it hide something even deeper?
Author's note : Two chapters in a few days… I hope you're happy mes amis :>
CW : Verso gets hard just from a few kisses. You can't change my mind. I promise you that the next chapter will be more spicy.
chapter IX
Days passed in a gentle rhythm, almost too quickly, filled with the quiet pulse of the Dessendre household. You spent hours beside Verso at the piano, watching, listening, trying, failing, and then trying again. He taught you the names of notes, the spacing of the keys, the feel of the ivory beneath your fingertips. At first, the sounds you produced were sharp, jarring, almost painful to hear, each note a small rebellion against the music in your head. But you learned quickly, each mistake building into knowledge, every small success coaxing a thrill of triumph.
Alongside your lessons, life with the Dessendre wove itself into a tapestry of warmth. You cooked with Aline, tasting, adjusting, laughing at the inevitable disasters of new recipes. Alicia chattered constantly, pulling you into conversations about stories, books that you both like, offering her own interpretations, while you shared your timid thoughts, learning to speak aloud ideas you had only ever held in your mind. Cléa painted, and you watched, fascinated by how a brush could pull entire worlds from color and shadow. Renoir, quiet but attentive, spoke in measured tones about everything and nothing, letting you hear the calm certainty in his voice, until the days settled into a rhythm that felt both endless and fleeting.
And yet, the dream, or the nightmare, returned, often enough to unsettle you. Some nights it crept back in, ink crawling along your veins, panic tightening your chest, even after hours of sunlight and laughter.
One night, sleep eluded you entirely. You lay beside Verso, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the soft curve of his lips in repose. Fingers ghosted through his hair, tracing lines as if to memorize the way the strands fell across his forehead. After a while, you rose. Softly, carefully, moving without a sound, you gathered a notebook, ink, and your quill from your bag. The house was hushed, every footstep muted against the floorboards. You opened the door to the music room and let it close almost silently behind you. The piano stood before you, dark, still, a promise of sound.
Instead of sitting at the bench, you lay on the cold marble, notebook on the floor, quill poised. Legs lifted, swinging slightly, you rested your face in the palm of your hand, other hand clutching the quill, and began to draw notes across the page. You hummed the melody that had been lodged in your mind all day, each sound a small thread trying to weave itself into reality. You weren't sure whether the notes on the paper were correct or not. At worst, Verso would see your attempt tomorrow and guide you.
And then, it happened. A faint glow, golden and trembling, traced your veins from the palms of your hands up your arms. Your eyes widened, heart stuttering. The notes on the page shimmered, lifted from the paper, each one curling in luminous arcs before settling back into shape, shifting, correcting themselves. The quill felt heavier, lighter, vibrating slightly, and the melody you had only half-whispered began to play in the room around you.
The sound startled you, both terrifying and beautiful. Notes floated and intertwined, rising and falling, filling every corner of the space. You could feel the warmth of it against your skin, the subtle pull of something larger than yourself threading through the music. Panic twisted in your stomach, sharp and urgent, but awe mingled with it, breathless and dizzying.
For a moment, you couldn’t move, couldn’t even think. Everything was alive, the gold light in your veins, the melody bending around you, the room humming with its own pulse. Then, as quickly as it had come, the glow faded, the notes cooled to normal ink on paper, solid, still. Your chest heaved with a shaky laugh of disbelief.
Acting without thought, driven by both fear and instinct, you tore the page from your notebook, crumpled it, and flung it into the wastebasket. Your heart still thumped wildly as you snatched your quill, ink,notebook and fled, careful not to stumble. Marble bit into the soles of your feet as you ran quietly, breath shallow, ears straining for any sign of movement.
The door to Verso’s bedroom felt impossibly far away. Each step was a careful negotiation between speed and stealth. Finally, you crossed the threshold, closing it softly behind you, collapsing onto the bed. Your heart still raced, but warmth and safety wrapped around you immediately, the mundane, the solid, the human reality of his presence was a balm against the fantastical terror you had just experienced.
You lay down beside him, careful not to wake him, and instinctively he shifted closer, a quiet, unthinking motion. One arm came around you, drawing you in, his cheek resting lightly against your chest, pressing just enough to remind you that you were not alone. You took a shaky breath, then another, letting the rhythm of his body seep into your own. Fingers flexed against the sheets, seeking purchase, grounding yourself. Slowly, you tried to calm the storm of panic that still pulsed beneath your ribs. You whispered to yourself, half to hear your own voice, half to summon courage. There is only one person who could help you…
The thought of returning to the writers’ district made your chest tighten, a coil of anxiety twisting your stomach. It was the one place that promised answers, and yet, it was also the source of so much pressure, of judgment and expectation. You closed your eyes, trying to let the fear drift away, but it clung stubbornly, teasing your mind, whispering reminders of the impossible.
Minutes stretched into hours. You shifted slightly, pressing closer into Verso, inhaling the faint scent of him. Each rise and fall of his chest became a metronome for your own breathing. Slowly, tentatively, your body began to release its tension. You let your thoughts float aimlessly, circling and settling, until finally exhaustion wrapped itself around you like a soft cloak.
Somewhere in the quiet hours before dawn, sleep took you. Verso still held you, unknowing but steady, his presence a tether to reality, to warmth, to the calm you so desperately needed. Your breathing softened, harmonizing with his, and for the first time that night, the panic eased completely, leaving only the faint, lingering pulse of wonder, and relief, beneath your skin.
The morning was quiet, almost deceptively so, but the tension had already begun to coil in the corners of the manor. Renoir had gathered them in the sitting room earlier in the day, voice calm but firm, “The Dessendre family will be returning to the writers’ district tonight,” he announced, “Just for one evening, a dinner, again, nothing more.”
Verso had been the least enthusiastic, shoulders tensed and jaw tight, “I don’t want to go,” he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl, “I don’t want to see them.”
Aline immediately reached for Verso’s hand, her brow furrowed with concern, “It’s only for a few hours,” she said softly, but he frowned, lips pressed tightly together.
He had exhaled slowly, leaning into her reassurance, but you could see the flicker of unease in his eyes. He had come so far since the days of madness he had endured, and yet even now, the thought of returning to the presence of the Council, the main suspects in what happened to him, made him restless.
Over the next few days, you stayed close, lingering near him, offering quiet words and gentle touches. Every hand on his arm, every brush of your fingers through his hair was meant to anchor him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. It helped, though not entirely, a shadow of fear still lingered, a cautious whisper beneath his calm facade.
By the afternoon of the appointed day, a sleek black landaulet arrived. You recognized it immediately, the same vehicle that had carried Verso and his family during the earlier incident in the other district. Your stomach tightened at the sight. The memory came unbidden, Verso in the arms of this other woman, looking at you and ignoring you at the same timel… and now, they were returning there tonight.
Renoir approached, his expression gentle but decisive, “If you prefer,” he said, turning toward you, “you may stay here while we go. You don’t have to come along.”
Verso’s gaze snapped to you, a frown tugging at his features, “Are you coming?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head, voice calm but firm, “I have to see a friend,” you explained.
Aline’s eyes softened with concern, yet held a firm edge, “Be careful,” she said, resting a hand on your shoulder, “I know it’s your home, but… one can never be too careful.”
You nodded, understanding the weight behind her warning, and followed Verso outside. You climbed into the landaulet, settling beside him. As the door shut and the engine purred to life, the world outside began to slide by in blurred strips of light and shadow. The streets of Paris unfolded under the afternoon sun, shutters painted gold by the light, horse-drawn carriages rattling over cobblestones, a faint smell of bread and smoke from nearby boulangeries. Yet as the vehicle approached the borders of the writers’ district, your chest tightened, a subtle nausea threading through your stomach. Anxiety rose, unfurling in your limbs. You swallowed against it, fingers trembling slightly.
Verso noticed. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with a quiet insistence, “I’m here,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your knuckles, “I’ve got you.”
The reassurance was grounding, but only just. The district drew nearer, its familiar buildings looming, the weight of unspoken history pressing at your sides. You clenched and unclenched your hand in his, letting the contact remind you that you were not facing it alone.
Finally, the landaulet stopped, glinting in the low sun near the great library, its stone façade massive and imposing, and right next door, the house of the head of the Writers’ Council. Both structures rose like silent sentinels, impossibly close to one another, the space between them almost taut with expectation. You all descended from the vehicle. Verso’s parents lingered by his side, the subtle tension of the day weighing down their posture.
Before anyone could separate to follow their own paths, you pulled Verso aside, discreetly, pressing your body close to his. Your hands cupped his face, fingers brushing over his jaw, over his temples. You pressed your lips to his briefly, tenderly, “It will be alright,” you whispered, soft as the wind between the library columns, “For you… and for me.”
The words hung between you, almost a farewell, and your chest tightened. Verso returned the kiss, soft yet certain, pressing closer. When he finally pulled back, his gaze locked on yours, he murmured with a faint, reassuring smirk, “And if anything goes wrong… I’ll shake the entire district until I find you.”
The promise made your heart skip, but also filled you with warmth. With one last squeeze of his hands, you let him step back to join his mother, who stayed at his side, ever watchful. Your own heart was still pounding as you turned, weaving through the space between the two towering buildings, and melted into the immense interior of the library.
The scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped you instantly, sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting latticed patterns across the wooden floors. Here, at last, you could take a shallow breath, but a tight knot remained in your chest. The thought of the evening’s journey, and the questions it might unearth, pressed against your mind like a quiet drumbeat, sharp and unrelenting. Fear of what you might discover lingered just beneath the surface, keeping your pulse restless.
You wandered through the towering aisles of the writer’s district library, your steps slow, hesitant. You could have gone straight to the tower where your friend lived, but something inside you held you back. You weren’t sure if they were home, if they’d be in their room, or elsewhere, lost in their own world as they often were. The quiet of the library pressed around you, that familiar scent of old paper and dust filling your lungs with every shallow breath.
Then a voice called your name. Bright, curious, with that unmistakable note of joy you knew so well. You turned. Your friend stood a few shelves away, waving at you, a wide smile spread across their face. Beside her stood a tall woman you had never seen before. Her robes were unmistakable, the heavy, flowing garments of an Academician.
“Hey! I didn’t expect to see you here!” your friend said, walking quickly toward you.
You hesitated, words caught somewhere between your throat and your lips. The Academician’s eyes fixed on you, calm but sharp, and after a moment she stepped forward, extending a hand.
“So our paths finally cross," she said, her voice low and even, though her mouth curved into a faint smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The words made you freeze. Our paths finally cross. That meant your friend had already spoken of you. You lowered your gaze, timid, and reached out, your fingers brushing against hers in a soft, awkward shake.
Before you could say anything, your friend tilted their head, curiosity plain in their eyes, “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you for days.”
The question pierced through your hesitation. You bit your lip, torn between silence and confession. But something told you, if anyone could help you, it might be this woman, this Academician. The words rushed out before you could stop them, faster than your own breath, “Verso came to see me,” you said, “We kissed. My parents caught us. I… I ran. I went to the Dessendre. And then… something strange happened. I needed to talk to someone about it.”
By the time you finished, your lungs burned, your chest heaving. Your friend’s eyes widened, flickering through disbelief, shock, then worry. The Academician, by contrast, remained unreadable, her face composed, her gaze steady. As though she knew far more than she allowed to show. She leaned down slightly, meeting your eyes directly, her voice soft, “Why don’t you come with us?” she said, “We can talk on the way.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and began to walk, her robes whispering against the floor. Your friend followed without hesitation, glancing back at you with an encouraging nod. And so you had no choice but to follow too.
As the three of you walked, your friend peppered you with gentle questions, never digging too deep, never prying into the Dessendres’ private life, but seeking to piece together what had happened, “So that night… the investiture,” she said quietly, “He came to you?”
You nodded, “He kissed me. He stayed the night. My parents… they were furious. My father especially. So I left. Since then, the Dessendres have taken me in. Things have been… different. But safe.”
She nodded slowly, but before you could explain further, you realized the path beneath your feet was too familiar. The walls closed in, cold stone dripping with faint moisture, and you froze.
“This way,” the Academician said, her voice echoing faintly against the tunnel walls.
You swallowed, your heart racing. You recognized it instantly, the passage leading to the archives, “…We’re going to the archives?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” the Academician replied, without turning her head, “I had forgotten something there.”
The words struck you as a lie. Not in their sound, but in the way she said them, too casual, too smooth. A prickle at the back of your neck told you she had another reason. But her presence, calm and assured, carried no malice. Against your better judgment, you chose silence.
The passage opened, and the stale air of the archives washed over you. The room was just as you remembered, nothing had been tidied. Boxes overflowing with scrolls, shelves crammed with uneven stacks, scrolls spilling onto the stone floor.
You moved slowly between the piles, fingertips brushing against the edges of forgotten texts. Then, as you passed a crooked stack, your breath caught. A book resting on top shone faintly, a pulse of gold beneath the dust. And then it happened. Your veins lit up, threads of gold blooming beneath your skin, snaking down your arms in glowing patterns. You stopped dead. The book trembled. Pages flipped on their own, fluttering wildly until they landed open at the middle. A single quill lay between the blank pages, as though it had been waiting.
Chest tightened. Fear clawed up your throat. You wrapped your arms around yourself, desperate to hide the glow beneath your sleeves, but it was too late.
Your friend’s voice was sharp with worry, “What’s happening to you?”
“I…” your voice cracked. You lifted your arms, staring at the glowing veins, “I don’t know. I don’t understand. It’s the second time, ever since the nightmares started, these marks, they just appear…”
Your breath hitched, faster, shallower. The room swayed. Your friend took a step forward, but it was the Academician who reached you first. Her hands settled firmly on your shoulders, “Breathe with me,” she said, her tone quiet but commanding, “Inhale. Exhale.”
You tried. At first your lungs resisted, your heart hammering too hard. But her eyes held yours, steady, grounding, “Inhale. Exhale.”
You followed, shaky at first, then steadier. Minutes dragged by, but slowly, your chest loosened. Your trembling lessened. Tears blurred your vision, and when they spilled free, the Academician’s touch shifted, fingers brushing gently along your cheeks, wiping them away, “There,” she murmured, “Better.”
She let the silence linger before speaking again, “Now. Tell me what happened.”
And you did. You told her about the nightmares. About the glowing marks that haunted your skin. About the night you wrote music and the ink itself seemed to come alive. The words spilled from you, leaving you drained, empty, but strangely lighter.
The Academician listened, her expression unreadable, until finally she stepped back. Her smile was calm, almost reassuring. She moved among the piles, searching, until she returned with a plain-looking book. The leather was cracked, the cover unmarked, “It’s not a curse,” she said, “You’re not broken. You’re discovering what you are.”
You frowned, confusion and doubt warring in your chest. You glanced at the book, then back to her. She pressed it into your hands. The first page read in bold letters, “The History of the Scriptomancers.” you whispered the title aloud, your voice trembling.
Your friend gasped softly, eyes alight with wonder, “Scriptomancers! I’ve heard of them. Writers who could weave magic into their words. They created scrolls like these,” they gestured to the mess of parchment around you, “But you know what happened next... magic was banned, and the Scriptomancers were forced to stop practicing magic.”
You snapped the book shut, shoving it back toward the Academician, “No. That’s impossible. I’m not… I’m not even a writer, I can't write!”
But she refused to take it back. She folded your hands around the book, firm, insistent, “You don't have to be the best writer,” she said softly, “Scriptomancers weren’t always… writers. They were creators. Dreamers. That’s why they were dangerous.”
Your gaze fell again to the glowing book on the pile, to the quill resting between its pages, vibrating faintly as though calling for you. You hesitated only a moment before setting the history book down, and reaching out. The quill was warm in your hand. The blank pages glowed. A line of text unfurled, delicate, shimmering, the letters forming as if written by an invisible hand, Ask, and you shall be answered.
In rhyme, and truth will be rendered. Your breath caught. The letters shimmered faintly on the page, as though waiting, expectant.
Your friend leaned closer, whispering with awe, “It’s… it’s asking you to write something. To ask it a question.”
The Academician’s gaze, though harder to read, betrayed a flicker of interest. She folded her arms, watching you closely, yet not stopping you.
Your fingers trembled around the quill. A question pressed so heavily in your chest that you could barely think of anything else. The stolen scrolls. The shadow that had haunted Verso. The doubt that lingered like poison. You lowered the tip of the quill to the blank page. The golden ink spilled without you dipping it anywhere, flowing freely, alive. Voice a little more than a whisper as you wrote, shaping the words into rhyme, because the book demanded it, Who stole the scrolls, who played this game, Was it one alone, or many to blame?
The letters glowed, brighter, brighter still. The page quivered as if alive. Your friend gasped, stepping back, and even the Academician leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharpening.
The lines of ink began to move. They swirled, stretching into shapes, curling until they became something else, lines turned to strokes, strokes to shadows, shadows into an image. And then you saw it. On the page, a single silhouette appeared. Feminine, of middling height, the features blurred but unmistakably poised. The drawing pulsed once, and above the figure, a glimmering sigil formed, the symbol representing the family of the head of the Writers' Council. The brooch owned by him, his wife, and their two children. The golden veins on your arms flared in recognition, burning in rhythm with the image on the page, as though your very blood confirmed the truth.
Your friend exhaled sharply, “I knew it. That little brat. Of course it was her.”
The Academician, silent until now, finally spoke. Her tone was calm, measured, almost too calm, “Now that you know the truth… What are you planning to do next?”
Something in the way she said it unsettled you. It didn’t sound like a question born of surprise, but one of expectation. As if she had already known who the thief was, and only wanted to hear it confirmed.
What were you going to do? You didn’t know. Even if you told Renoir and Aline, even if you showed them what you had seen, would they believe you? A forbidden book, a banned magic, it wasn’t the kind of proof anyone would dare present to the Council. The thought of it pressed heavy on your chest, “I don’t know…” you admitted at last.
The silence stretched until the last of the light disappeared from the archives, until the marks on your arms disappeared. You bent to pick up the other book, the one about the Scriptomancers, holding it close as if it were something priceless. The weight of it steadied you, even as your thoughts raced. When you turned back to the Academician, the words left your lips before you could second-guess them, “Can I… keep it?”
Her expression softened, the corners of her mouth curving into the faintest smile, “Of course. It won’t be missed.” she turned and began to walk toward the exit. At the threshold she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and said simply, “Come. We’ll talk somewhere else.”
Your friend, who had been watching in silence, frowned, “So you brought us here for this? How did you guess before she even spoke?!”
The Academician only smiled, offering no explanation, and continued on. Your friend hurried after her, muttering under their breath, and you followed close behind, clutching the book tightly against your chest. It felt heavier than it should have been, heavier, and far more valuable.
The archives faded behind, replaced by the softer light of the street. The Academician walked with you a while, her words measured, though they slipped past without leaving much trace. At a quiet intersection she paused, excused herself with a faint nod, and disappeared, leaving only the two of you together. Home came to mind, an idea heavy enough to tighten your chest. Your friend didn’t argue, she simply offered to walk at your side. The road was short, but every step stretched long. She tried to lighten the silence with small remarks, half-playful, as though her voice might keep the weight from pressing too hard.
At the door, your knuckles tapped once, twice, three times, hesitant. No reply. The stillness beyond the wood felt colder than you remembered. A pause, then the latch yielded under your hand. The silence of the house pressed in, heavier with every room you crossed. By the time you reached the living room, the weight had become unbearable.
A desk stood waiting, paper, quill, and ink set neatly as if prepared for you. If they weren't there so you could reassure them in person, you might as well leave them a note. Sitting down, the first words came almost by instinct, “Papa, Maman,” and then nothing. The quill hovered uselessly above the page. Thoughts crowded your chest but refused to take shape.
Your friend, watching quietly, leaned forward, “Maybe… this could be a way to test it. See how it works.”
The suggestion made you hesitate. Power still pulsed faintly in memory, the book, the glowing script, words bending themselves into truths you hadn’t dared to speak. Fear prickled at the edges of your thoughts. But curiosity answered too.
Drawing a breath, you lowered your eyes to the page and let go of the pressure to form the right sentence. Instead, you focused on what lived beneath it, the ache of wanting them to know you were safe, the fragile joy of what you’d found, the fear they’d never accept it. You thought of Verso, of the peace his presence gave, of how desperately you wanted your parents to see that.
Ink began to flow, the quill moving as if carried by a current. At first the words were your own, awkward, halting, but then the veins lit along your arms, gold threading through your skin. Letters brightened, twisted, reshaped. Sentences softened and shifted until the page reflected exactly what you had meant all along. That you were well. That no danger shadowed you. That happiness filled you more than ever before. That they need not worry. That the Dessendre gave you shelter, and if your parents wished to come, they could, so long as it was in peace, never again in defiance of your bond with Verso.
The glow faded slowly, ink turning ordinary once more. The marks along your arms dimmed, retreating as if nothing had happened at all.
“It’s like the ink is alive in you,” your friend whispered, awe softening her tone, “Like it listens to what you feel.”
Your gaze left the page, finding hers, “It seems so...”
The clock ticked steadily in the corner, indifferent. Dinner was still a long way off. For a moment, staying here tempted you, cooking together, filling the house with warmth, but the thought of your parents walking in tightened your stomach.
Instead, the question slipped out, “Would you like to eat outside? We could stop by a bakery. Find somewhere quiet.”
Relief touched her smile, “I’d like that.”
The bakery gave way to a café, light spilling softly against the windows. Inside, you shared tea and simple food, conversation drifting between you until hours dissolved unnoticed into evening.
By the time you stepped back outside, uncertainty still lingered. When would the Dessendre return? You couldn’t guess. So, the two of you made your way back to the library, climbed its wide stone steps, and sat together on the stairs as the sky deepened above, waiting.
Half an hour slipped by on the library steps before lantern light spilled from the house of the head of the Writers' Council, and the Dessendre family emerged. You waited until the Head of the Council and his entourage wish them a safe journey home before returning home themselves and disappearing. Only then did you rise. Your friend stood when you did, footsteps close behind.
Alicia spotted her first, “You!” she burst out, delight brightening her face as she hurried over, “I hoped I’d run into you again.” she caught your friend in a quick, easy hug, already chattering about nothing and everything.
Aline and Renoir followed at a calmer pace. Their attention went to your friend, warm, curious, unmistakably sincere, “So you're the one Alicia and Clea told us about,” Aline said, smiling, “We’re very glad to meet you.”
Renoir inclined his head, “Truly. Thank you for keeping them company today.” he didn’t look at you when he said them, but the word landed gently all the same.
While greetings flowed, Verso drifted toward you as if pulled by a thread. The moment his shoulder brushed yours, the churn in your chest eased. He didn’t speak at first, only fitted his fingers between yours, thumb faintly tracing the bridge of your knuckles, a quiet question, “Did it go… alright?” you asked, searching his face.
“As well as it could,” he said, mouth curving into a tired, private smile, “Maman didn’t leave my side.” a flick of his eyes toward Aline, fond, rueful, “It helped.”
A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding loosened, “Good.”
“And you?” he asked, “Your afternoon?”
“Tea. A long talk. It helped too.” you allowed the barest nod toward your friend, keeping the rest tucked safely away for now.
Aline’s attention slid briefly to you, soft and knowing, before she turned back to your friend with the same gentleness, “We should let you rest. It’s getting late.”
Renoir added, “We’re heading home now. You’re welcome at our house anytime, truly. Alicia would be thrilled to have you visit.”
Alicia practically sparkled, “Tomorrow? The day after? I’ll send a letter!”
Your friend laughed, a little flustered, “I… soon. I promise.”
“Good,” Aline said, pleased, “Then we’ll look forward to it.”
While farewells were traded, Verso leaned closer, voice low enough for you alone, “Thank you for waiting,” he murmured, “I kept thinking about you.”
“Likewise,” you whispered back, “Every minute.”
He lifted your joined hands and, without theatrics, pressed your knuckles to his lips. The kiss was brief, but something in it steadied the night around you.
Renoir’s voice carried gently over the small knot of goodbyes, “We should go.” he gave your friend a parting nod, “Truly, anytime.”
Your friend gave you a warm hug, then stepped back and watched as you turned with the Dessendres toward the waiting landaulet idling at the curb. Inside the car, the city drifted past in lantern-struck ribbons. Verso didn’t let go. His hand stayed laced with yours, then slid, palm warm, to rest lightly over your wrist, thumb moving in slow circles that matched the rhythm of the wheels. Streetlight shadowed the angle of his jaw, in the passing dark he stole a small, grateful glance, as though confirming you were really there.
“Brave,” he said, almost to himself.
“For waiting on some stairs?” you tried to tease, and it came out softer than you meant.
“For today.” he corrected, a little breath of a laugh, “And for kissing me like a benediction before I walked into that place.”
Heat warmed your cheeks, “You made a dramatic promise, remember?”
“Oh, I meant it,” he said, the smirk quick and real, “If anything went wrong, I’d have shaken the entire district until I found you.”
“Wild,” you murmured, but your smile wouldn’t hide, “And oddly comforting.”
He turned your hand, pressed another kiss into the center of your palm, then folded your fingers as if tucking the warmth away to keep. Across from you, Aline pretended to watch the street while a satisfied softness settled over her expression. Renoir met your eyes once in the window’s reflection and gave a small, approving nod, as though the quiet peace between you counted as the best outcome the evening could offer.
The manor rose out of the night, its windows lit like patient stars. When the landaulet halted, the chill of evening slipped in as the door opened. You stepped down with Verso’s hand still secure in yours, followed the familiar gravel path and the glow of the entry lamps.
Just inside, the hush of the foyer folded around all of you. Aline touched Verso’s shoulder, mother-gentle, “Go on,” she said, meaning rest, and turned down the hall with Renoir, Cléa and Alicia, each of them ready to curl up under their blankets for a well-deserved rest.
Left in the soft spill of the entry light, you and Verso lingered that fraction of a moment longer, close enough to share the same breath, close enough that the worst parts of the day felt like a story someone else had told. He brushed a curl from your forehead, fingers lingering at your temple.
You step into Verso’s room, and the soft click of the door feels impossibly loud in the hush that follows. The air itself seems heavier, warmer, charged with something you can’t name. You both change quickly, the rustle of fabric against skin magnified, each movement making your pulse spike. When you slip under the sheets, side by side, facing him, your bodies so close it’s almost unbearable, the heat radiates between you. Every inch of space is suddenly gone, every heartbeat echoing in your chest.
His gaze meets yours, slow, searching, and your stomach twists at the intensity. He leans in, lips brushing yours in a feather-light kiss that makes your knees go weak. At first, it’s soft, almost hesitant, as if he’s testing the waters. Then, without warning, the pressure behind the kiss deepens, warmer, firmer, and you feel yourself drawn in, a tug you cannot resist.
The world narrows to the brush of his lips, the weight of his body pressed against yours, the quiet heat building low in your belly. He trails his lips down your neck, teasing, claiming, leaving little marks that sting deliciously. Your breath comes in small gasps, your fingers threading through his hair, gripping at the strands as if holding him in place will keep the moment from shattering. He returns to your lips, kisses hungry and insistent, and the tension coils tighter with every motion.
Then his hands slide down your back to your hips, pressing you closer. His fingers splay, cupping your backside, and your body reacts, instinctively pressing into him. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts your leg and passes it over his. The shift makes your bodies lock together, the closeness sending a rush of heat you can barely contain. The pressure of his erection against you presses low, and your breath hitches, caught between exhilaration and anxiety.
The kisses grow fiercer, each one a storm against your lips. His tongue teases yours, slow and exploratory, then pulls back only to return with renewed hunger. You shiver with every touch, your chest pressing to his, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The quiet sounds of the room, your shallow breaths, his soft exhalations, the subtle scrape of skin against skin, fill the space, each one amplifying the tension, making it impossible to think of anything else.
When you finally pull back, just a fraction, lips swollen and wet, foreheads pressed together, the heat still radiating between you, both of you gasp softly. He strokes along your waist, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours, steady yet urgent. The intensity lingers, a coiled thread of want and restraint binding you together.
Your hands press lightly on his chest, seeking space. The words catch in your throat before spilling out, trembling and uneven, “I… I don’t know if I’m ready.”
A shadow of guilt pricks at you, sharp and sudden, you hate the thought of stopping him, of breaking the moment, “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes darting away, shame curling in your chest.
He stills at once, no hesitation, his gaze steady and unwavering on yours, “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, tender, “don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to apologize for.” one hand lifts, brushing a thumb across your cheek, grounding you, “You don’t owe me anything. Just being here with you… it’s enough.”
The tension in your chest eases, replaced by a fragile warmth. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, only holds you closer, letting the silence between you soften into safety. For a long moment, the two of you stay there, side by side, hearts racing, breaths mingling, fingers brushing almost by accident but with meaning. The quiet hum of the night outside presses in, the faint creak of the bed, the soft rhythm of your breathing, all of it magnified in the stillness, making each glance, each brush of skin, each shared sigh feel electric, charged with the intensity of the closeness, the desire, the unspoken connection.
The pressure between you remains, low and undeniable, reminding you both of everything you feel and everything you’re holding back, the uncharted territory of first love, fragile and thrilling. And yet, the restraint, the care, the mutual understanding makes it all the more intense, a tension that thrums in every nerve, every breath, every heartbeat.
He shifts slightly closer, his voice dropping into a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, “Would you… like to spend a week together? Just the two of us?”
You lift your head, caught off guard, curiosity sparking in your chest. Your heart quickens, “A week… just the two of us?” you repeat, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes locking on yours, warm and certain, “Papa and Maman have a little vacation house by a big lake. We could go there… swim if you want, relax by the water, be completely alone. No one around, just… us. And when the sun sets… it’s very romantic. The kind of place where everything slows down.”
Your imagination takes flight. You picture the lake stretching endlessly under the evening sky, soft ripples catching the last of the sun’s gold, the little wooden house tucked among whispering trees. You imagine the two of you on a narrow dock, legs dangling over the water, laughing until stars appear, or wrapped in blankets on the porch, talking quietly as fireflies drift past.
A soft gasp escapes you. Your eyes are wide, sparkling with wonder, “I… I think I’d like that,” you admit, a shy warmth curling in your chest.
He smiles, a mixture of relief and quiet joy, and bends down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. His lips linger, soft and sure, “Then it’s settled,” he murmurs, “We can go tomorrow. My parents are fine with it and, they can even drive us there if you want.”
“Tomorrow?” you ask, a little startled, blinking up at him, “Will we have time to pack? Are… your parents okay with this?”
He chuckles softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, “Don’t worry,” he says with calm confidence, “I haven’t packed yet, but Papa and Maman are ready to help and happy to drop us off. That’s all we need to start. Everything else we can figure out once we’re there.”
The worry in your chest melts away, replaced by a delicate flutter of excitement. You scoot closer under the covers, letting his warmth envelop you. He drapes an arm around your shoulders, drawing you gently against him. The space between you disappears, and you feel the soft pressure of his body, grounding and comforting, a silent promise of presence and care.
You rest your head against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. His fingers weave through your hair, tracing tiny, soothing circles, each movement deliberate and calming, “I can’t wait,” you whisper, your breath warm against his shirt.
“Neither can I,” he replies, nuzzling the top of your head, “It’ll be our little world… just for us.”
The moonlight spills across the room, casting silver patterns over the sheets. The quiet is punctuated only by your synchronized breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, and the occasional sigh that slips past your lips. You feel safe here, cocooned in his presence, every small touch and murmur reinforcing the closeness between you.
Minutes stretch in a gentle, unhurried rhythm. His hand rests over yours, thumb moving in lazy, comforting circles. Your eyelids grow heavy, and the warmth of his body, the soft press of lips to temple and hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, it all lulls you toward sleep. The last thought that drifts through your mind is that tomorrow, and the week to follow, will be filled with these quiet, perfect moments, closeness, laughter, shared secrets, and the gentle, unspoken promise of a love that feels infinite.
Dawn slips through the curtains in thin bands of gold, excitement kicks in your ribs before thought can catch up. A hand slides under the covers to nudge Verso’s shoulder, “Verso… wake up,” you whisper, half laughing already.
A drowsy sound, then lashes lift. Sleep still clings to his face until a slow smile blooms. He hooks an arm around your waist, pulls you close, and kisses you, unhurried, warm, the kind that lights the whole day from the start, “Ready for our adventure?” His voice is rough with sleep and happiness.
“Yes,” you breathe, “Completely.”
Sheets are thrown back, the room fills with movement. Clothes laid out the night before become a swift reality, comfortable clothes and a cardigan, his shirts folded with rare care. Notebooks and quills find their place, the Scriptomancer volume tucked deep in your bag as if it could hum through the luggage. A pair of sturdy shoes thump to the floor. By the time the last clasp snaps shut, two neat stacks of luggage wait by the door like obedient dogs.
Downstairs, the house already smells of coffee and bread. Aline has set the table with ruthless efficiency, porcelain cups clink, steam rolls up.
Cléa lifts her gaze as you enter, a sly spark in her eyes, “Try not to get lost in the woods, little brother.”
“I’ll manage,” Verso replies, sliding a plate toward you.
Cléa arches a brow at you, lips curving, “Good luck with that.”
Renoir clears his throat, failing to hide the curve of amusement at his mouth. Aline’s hand brushes your shoulder as she passes behind you with a dish of jam, a touch that says be safe without the weight of a lecture. Breakfast becomes a pleasant tangle of chatter and small catastrophes, Alicia drops a spoon, Cléa rescues a runaway slice of butter, Verso steals the last strawberries and shares it with you in secret, the sweetness dissolving on your tongue like a shared promise.
Suitcases thud softly on the tiles by the front door, goodbye hugs collect in the foyer. Alicia bounces on her toes, bright-eyed, “Have fun!” she insists, clapping her hands together.
“We will,” you promise, and she squeezes you hard enough to squeak the breath from your lungs.
Outside, the automobile waits, a 1900s touring car with a long hood and polished brass lamps gleaming in the sun. The leather seats are cool to the touch, carrying the faint scent of oil and polish. Renoir settles at the wheel, posture upright, while Aline arranges her skirts with a soft rustle beside him. You and Verso climb into the back, the spring of the seat dipping under your combined weight. His hand finds yours almost immediately, warm and sure.
With a cough and a roar, the engine comes alive, rattling the frame before settling into a steady growl. The car shudders forward, wheels crunching over gravel until the estate gates swing open. Once on the road, the rhythm evens out, a low, mechanical heartbeat carrying you away.
Wind cool against your cheeks. The smell of damp earth lingers in the air, mixed with resin from the pines bordering the path. Fields roll out on either side, their grasses bent beneath the lazy weight of morning dew. Poppies flash red among the green, quick sparks of color that vanish as the car speeds on. Trees gather closer after a while, tall trunks flanking the road like watchful sentinels. Sunlight filters through the canopy, scattering dappled gold across the path, the flicker of light and shadow slipping over your skin. Birds wheel above, their cries momentarily lost beneath the hum of the engine and the faint squeak of metal joints.
In the front seat, Renoir and Aline lean toward each other, voices low, their words drowned by distance and motor but colored by smiles and half-glances. You don’t need to hear to know it’s memory that binds their conversation, old summers, familiar trails, the kind of stories that live best between two people who have carried them for years.
Forests replace farmland. Birch trunks stand pale as candle stems, spruce darkens the understory. Sun glitters in quick coins between leaves. Hills swell, flatten, and rise again, the engine hums a patient note. Verso traces slow circles over your wrist with his thumb, and time folds into the motion until forty-five minutes feel like the length of a song.
The lake reveals itself in a sudden opening of trees. Water spreads out in a sheet of glass-green, so clear the stones beneath look close enough to touch. The chalet appears next, a broad-shouldered structure of timber and stone, eaves deep, windows wide, as if the forest had grown a home and decided to keep it. A wooden deck runs along the edge, skimming the water, wicker chairs wait with cushions the color of moss. To the left, a waterfall threads down a face of rock furred with lichen and fern. Not a roar, more a perpetual hush. Spray hangs in the air, catching sunlight into brief stars. The pool below the fall trembles, sends faint ripples across the larger basin, and the whole place seems to breathe with it.
Renoir brings the car to a smooth stop. Doors open, cool, pine-scented air pours in. Bags come out one by one. Verso shoulders the heavier trunk and pretends it weighs nothing. Planks on the deck flex with a familiar creak. The water is so clear you can count the stacked, honey-colored stones beneath, minnows flicker like moving commas.
“It’s… perfect,” slips out before caution can rearrange the sentence.
Verso’s smile answers it, “Ours for a week.”
Aline unlocks the door and lets it swing wide. Inside, cool shade and the sweet scent of old wood. Exposed beams run the length of the ceiling, a stone hearth anchors the far wall, shelves hold a friendly disorder of books and shell-filled jars. A narrow ladder leads to a loft hung with mosquito netting, a soft white cloud suspended over a bed. In the kitchen corner, polished copper pans, a deep porcelain sink, a jar already waiting with tea leaves. Someone loved this place into being, then loved it enough to leave it ready.
Renoir sets the last case by the entry and casts a satisfied look around, chin lifting in that way of his that means the world has met his standard, “We’ll leave you to it,” he says, and Aline adds a quick embrace that smells of lavender and home.
“Send a telegram if you need anything,” she says, and you nod, though nothing in this moment suggests you’ll need a thing beyond each other and the hum of the cascade.
Goodbyes drift down the steps and across the deck. The car rolls away, swallowed by green. Silence returns, not empty, but generous. Water speaks in its constant hush, a bird contributes two clear notes and flies off like a thought you decided to keep.
Verso leans against the doorframe beside you, shoulders relaxing as if he has set down something invisible, “What do you want to do first?” he asks, voice light.
“Explore,” you say, because the word fits your mouth and the place at once.
Shoes come off by instinct. Bare feet meet warm wood, then the cool stone of the threshold, then the sunlit deck. When fingers test the water at the edge, a shock of freshness climbs your arm. Verso crouches, grinning, and trails his hand through the green clarity.
“Swim later,” he decides, eyes flicking to you for agreement.
“Swim later,” you echo, already imagining the clean rush of it, the weightless quiet under the surface, his laughter cutting through when you both come up for air.
Inside again, unpacking becomes a small ritual. Clothes breathe in the wardrobe that smells faintly of cedar. The Scriptomancer volume rests for a moment on the table, its presence a gentle tide under everything, then disappears into the drawer to keep it safe. A linen blanket gets shaken out over the back of the sofa, a kettle clucks on the stove while you open windows to let the forest drift in, sap, sun on bark, the thin sweetness of distant blossoms.
Verso touches your elbow, tilts his head toward the deck, “Come see,” he says, though you were already on your way. Together you step outside. The waterfall keeps its patient cadence, light slides across the pool until the bottom looks like hammered copper in motion.
“Does it feel real to you?” he asks, almost whispering.
“It does now,” you answer, “Now that we’re here.”
His hand finds yours again, easy, certain. The week stretches ahead like the lake itself, clear, deep, edged with trees and possibility. Somewhere a dragonfly skims the surface and writes a brief, brilliant line before the water closes over it, whole and calm.
Summary : This is your first time visiting Verso and his family. So far, everything has gone well, with a warm welcome and a feeling of already being accepted. But only time will tell if this harmony will last.
chapter VIII
Walking through the different corridors, you caught sight of the dining hall already filled with voices. Verso bent low to greet the dogs, their tails thumping wildly. A fleeting kiss brushed the corner of your lips before he guided the two animals away, disappearing down a corridor toward the gardens.
Everyone else was already seated when you entered, save for him. Timid feet slowed at the threshold, uncertain where to go, which chair might be his and which might be left for you. The table stretched wide, gleaming silverware catching the light of the chandelier, crystal glasses waiting, and the scent of food already curling through the air, rich and enticing.
Aline leaned forward, her movements graceful, serving generous portions of filet de sole à la Normande, the tender fish resting beneath a velvety sauce of cream, mushrooms, and wine. Steam rose delicately from the dish, filling the air with a fragrance so luxurious it startled you. Never had you seen a meal like this, something both beautiful and almost untouchable, art set on a plate. Your parents had never afforded such richness, their dinners had been simple, necessary. This was different.
Sensing your hesitation, Aline gestured toward the place she had just set, her smile kind, her voice warm, “Here, mon enfant. Sit here.”
Your steps were cautious, measured, before lowering yourself into the chair. Not long after, Verso returned, slipping into the seat beside you as though the place had been waiting for him all along.
Glasses lifted as Renoir rose slightly, voice steady and resonant, “To family,” he said, his gaze sweeping the table before resting briefly on you, “new and old.”
A quiet heat stirred in your chest, unfamiliar and steady. The first bite felt almost ceremonial. Careful hands cut precisely, fork raised without a sound, lips closing around the delicate flesh. The taste unfurled slowly, tender fish melting on your tongue, sauce smooth, almost silken, a whisper of wine lingering beneath the cream. Every flavor balanced, elegant, nothing like the meals you had grown up with. A soft ache of hunger returned as though your body feared this might be the only chance to taste such luxury. You chewed with care, determined not to make a sound, swallowing gently, every movement deliberate, anxious not to stain the table, or the cloth napkin spread over your lap.
Under the table, the warmth of his hand settled gently against your thigh. Not hurried, not demanding, simply there, steady and grounding. His thumb moved in slow circles against the fabric of your clothes, a quiet rhythm meant only for you. The gesture carried nothing but tenderness, a reminder you weren’t alone at this vast table. The weight of his touch anchored you, softening the nerves still coiled tight inside your chest.
Conversation blossomed like spring around you, voices weaving together in rhythm. They spoke of the gardens needing more lavender before the season ended, of Renoir’s idea for a short trip to the coast when summer came, of Alicia’s insistence that they should bring the dogs this time, no matter how chaotic it would be. Laughter scattered through the room like sunlight across glass, not noble, not rehearsed, simply alive.
At first, you only listened, ears tilted toward every voice, afraid to intrude. But slowly the attention turned toward you. Alicia leaned forward, chin in her hand, asking your favorite color, your favorite book, if you played a musical instrument, what kinds of flowers you liked best. Cléa teased that if you named roses, Aline would drag you into the garden tomorrow to prune them with her. Even Renoir inquired softly if the meal suited you, as though your opinion mattered in this house, in this family. Each question felt like a hand extended, pulling you further from the edges, placing you at the center where they sat.
The food continued to pass, plates refilled, glasses topped with wine that gleamed ruby in the light. For Alicia, since she was too young to drink, water filled her glasses instead, clear and simple, the contrast almost symbolic. Aline made sure your plate never emptied, nudging more bread toward you with a quiet insistence, “Eat, mon enfant. Here, no one leaves the table hungry.”
Timidity lingered, but the weight of it shifted, no longer so heavy. Smiles answered yours, warm and unforced, until your posture eased, shoulders no longer curled so tightly inward. The hum of their voices, the easy banter, the steady pressure of Verso’s hand against your thigh, piece by piece, all of it wove into a fabric strong enough to catch you.
Dessert arrived in quiet ceremony, silver trays carrying delicate dishes that gleamed under the lamplight. Aline set down small plates of île flottante, pale clouds of meringue adrift on pools of golden custard, the caramel glaze catching the glow. The scent of vanilla rose faintly in the air, rich yet light, a sweetness that promised comfort after the richness of the main course.
Spoons tapped softly, laughter rising again as the family slipped easily back into stories and jokes. The conversation flowed like water, sometimes overlapping, sometimes bursting into sudden laughter, always warm. Questions came your way often gentle, curious, woven into the conversation so you didn’t feel singled out. Still, you couldn’t help noticing the difference. At home, meals had been quieter. Breakfasts filled with clipped exchanges before your parents left for work, dinners peppered with light talk of the day but little that lingered on you. Weekends held longer conversations, but rarely about your life or theirs, always drifting around the surface, never diving deep. This table, though, brimmed with voices that welcomed you into its circle.
Aline’s attention returned to you, her voice gentle as though she had been waiting for the right moment,
“So,” she began, spoon laid carefully aside, “tell me… do you enjoy cooking?”
Heat crept into your cheeks at once, “A little,” you admitted softly, shoulders shifting, “I know some basics, but not much.”
Her smile held no judgment, only warmth, “Basics are the best foundation. Everyone starts there. Have you cooked much for yourself?”
Fingers curled lightly around the edge of your plate as you nodded, “I tried making breakfast this morning… for Verso and me.” the memory made your lips twitch upward despite yourself, “But I couldn’t even get the eggs right. He had to help.”
At that, Aline’s smile deepened, not with mockery but with softness that eased the tension in your chest, “Ah, so he helped? Then it was not a failure at all. Cooking is something best done together.” she tilted her head, eyes sparkling faintly, “Would you like to help me next time? I’d be happy to teach you.”
The offer caught you off guard, chest tightening with something warmer than surprise. After a small pause, you nodded, voice steady this time, “I’d like that.”
“Me too!” Alicia burst suddenly, leaning forward, her eyes bright and wide, “I want to learn! Can I help too, maman?”
Aline laughed softly, her hand reaching to brush a strand of hair from Alicia’s face, “Of course. The kitchen is big enough for three. Though,” she glanced teasingly toward Verso, who had been listening with a faint smirk, “perhaps four, if your brother can be persuaded not to eat half the ingredients before we begin.”
“Hey.” Verso muttered under his breath, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him.
The laughter that followed wrapped warmly around you, and for once, the timidity that had shadowed every step since you entered the manor loosened its hold. Surrounded by their voices, their easy warmth, the steady kindness woven into every glance and word, the knot of nerves in your chest began to ease. Here, within this family, you weren’t only tolerated, you belonged.
Renoir, who until then had mostly listened, finally turned his attention to you. His tone was calm but earnest, carrying the weight of genuine curiosity,
“So tell me,” he began, “as a writer… what form does your work usually take? Do you write stories, poems, perhaps journalism?”
The question caught you off guard. Spoon hovering above your plate, you froze, the words sticking before they could form. Silence stretched a beat too long, and heat rose to your cheeks, shame prickling faintly under your skin.
When you finally found your voice, it came softer than intended, “I… don’t really write. Not properly. I’ve only ever managed a few poems, and even those are recent. It wasn’t for anyone else, more just to… lift a weight off my chest.” eyes lowered, you pushed gently at the edge of your dessert with your fork, “I don’t think I have any real talent. Nothing that deserves the name ‘writer.’”
Renoir leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful, as if measuring each word before releasing it. His voice carried no judgment, only calm reason, “Perhaps,” he began, “you are not truly a writer. Not in the way the district defines it.”
The silence that followed pressed faintly against your chest, shame creeping in before you could form a reply. But Renoir lifted his hand lightly, cutting you off before the protest reached your lips, “Or perhaps,” he continued, gaze steady, “one of your parents is not a writer either.”
His question startled more than it should have, sending your thoughts spiraling backward. Images of your mother rose in your mind. She had been born in the central district, ordinary in that sense, and had only carried with her a love of books, and a particular fondness for writing and inventing stories. Maybe that was why she had not raged when news of you and Verso had surfaced, because her roots were elsewhere, outside the weight of tradition.
Your voice came quieter this time, but certain,
“My mother,” you admitted, lifting your eyes toward him, “She isn’t a writer. Well, she is one, but she wasn't born that way, she learned to love writing as she grew up. She was born in the central district. That’s why she moved here, to the writers' district… for her passion, not for bloodline or title.”
The table fell quiet, voices dimming as though everyone sensed the weight of the subject. Eyes shifted, toward Renoir when he spoke, toward you when you replied. Yet in your field of vision, only one pair of eyes never left. Verso’s. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady, protective, as if ready to move the instant your throat tightened or your eyes grew wet. Beneath the table, his hand rested against yours, thumb tracing calm, patient circles across your skin, anchoring you.
At last, Renoir leaned forward, fingers laced together, “You should know,” his voice steady, “I was not born a painter.”
The admission struck like cold water. Surprise sparked in your chest, you had always believed that the Dessendre were a family entirely made up of painters, that the gift ran pure and unbroken through both parents, no exceptions. To learn otherwise was proof of how little your own district truly knew about the Dessendre, and yet still, they wasted no chance to hate them. It struck you then that, in truth, your families shared something rare in common, one parent born with the talent of their district, the other carried by passion alone, or perhaps by love, learning to cherish what belonged first to someone else.
His eyes flicked toward Aline, then softened, “If my children carry a gift for it,” he said, “it comes from their mother, not from me.”
The silence that followed pressed against your ribs. A strange ache swelled within you, sharp yet warm. These were the words you had starved for, the words you had wanted to hear from your own parents for so long. Words of permission. Of acceptance. Of love untied from duty. And now, they were spoken not by them, but by a man you had been raised to distrust, to resent before you even knew his face. The irony bit deep, yet the comfort wrapped around it all the same. Cruel. Tender. Unavoidable.
Renoir broke the stillness again, his gaze drifting from you toward his son, “Even if you are born for something,” he said carefully, “it does not mean you cannot choose something else instead.”
Your eyes followed his, meeting Verso’s. A memory stirred, one you had brushed aside before, the moment he told you he preferred music to painting, that the piano drew him more than canvas ever could. You hadn’t thought much of it then, too tangled in your own feelings, too busy drowning in the storm of him. Only now did you see what you had missed. He had already shown you the very truth Renoir was speaking, that destiny was not a prison, that perhaps your path, too, lay somewhere unseen, waiting outside the walls of books you had been forced to worship.
The meal came to its end, plates emptied, conversation still humming like the echo of warmth in the air. Yet inside, you felt… strange. Light, and unbearably heavy at once. It was impossible to name the feeling, impossible to anchor it. Part of you floated, lifted by comfort, by the rare relief of being understood, of being reassured that there was space, permission, for you to explore, to fail, to find your way. And yet, that same possibility stretched vast and endless before you, like a sea without shore. Too deep, too infinite. The thought of it dragged you down, pressing at your chest until breath felt tight, suffocating.
A sudden sound startled you, the voices of Verso and Cléa breaking through your haze. Blinking, you turned your head to either side, focus sharpening on their faces. Cléa leaned toward you slightly, her tone firm but not unkind, “Papa and Maman would like to talk with you. About what we learned yesterday.”
It took a few moments for the words to make sense. Your thoughts, still tangled in the weight of Renoir’s earlier admission, lagged behind. Then it clicked, and the single word slipped out, low and uncertain, “Oh… all right.”
You rose slowly, ready to follow her, but Verso’s hand caught your wrist. He waited until Cléa stepped out of the dining room before turning to you, both his palms rising to cradle your face. His eyes searched yours, steady, protective, “Are you okay? You’ve looked pale ever since the talk with Papa.”
The tenderness of his touch softened you instantly. Even with that hollow ocean still roiling somewhere inside, the press of his hands against your cheeks let you breathe again, “I’m fine,” you murmured, voice faint but true, “just… lost.”
He studied you a moment longer, as though weighing whether to believe you. Then he bent, his lips brushing your forehead with gentle finality, a seal of comfort. His voice dropped, reassuring but edged with mock gravity, “Don’t worry too much. Answers come when they want to. If you think too hard, you’ll just give yourself headaches.”
A laugh escaped you, light and unexpected, breaking through the heaviness clinging to your chest. His mix of seriousness and humor always seemed to land exactly where you needed it. Smiling, you leaned up, stealing a brief kiss from his lips, tender, fleeting, but enough to anchor you. As you pulled away, he caught your hand, threading his fingers through yours, and together you left the dining room.
The murmur of voices reached you even before the salon door came into view. Cléa’s voice, sharp and heated, cut through the air, “In any case, I hope they never set foot here again.”
Renoir’s reply followed, calm and steady, though tinged with something heavy, “Ma puce, I understand your anger. But for the sake of Paris, for the districts, we must face this problem with calm.”
When you and Verso entered, the atmosphere struck you instantly. Alicia was already perched on a sofa, her posture smaller, quieter, as though keeping balance within the storm. Cléa occupied a chair nearby, body stiff, her position radiating anger. Aline and Renoir sat side by side, every line of their frame poised, elegant, carrying the nobility that never seemed to leave them, even in moments of tension.
Verso guided you to sit beside Alicia, his presence warm at your side. The room felt heavier now, the weight of expectation and conflict pooling in its silence, ready to break.
The air in the salon felt heavy, as though the silence itself had weight. No one spoke, no one seemed willing to be the first to break it, or perhaps no one knew where to begin. It stretched long, taut, until at last Aline cleared her throat softly. Her eyes found yours, calm yet piercing, and her voice slipped into the stillness, “What do you think?”
The question caught you off guard. What did she mean, exactly? What you thought of the supposed love spells cast on Verso? By whom, and for what purpose? What you thought of the culprits, whether the head of the Writer’s Council was involved, or just their daughter? The gears in your mind spun too fast, colliding with one another, until you finally asked, hesitant, “About what… exactly?”
Aline tilted her head, a faint curve at the corner of her lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Either she had read the tangle of your thoughts, or your face betrayed them too easily, “About the situation as a whole.”
Pressure closed in, sharp as a weight on your chest. For a moment, you felt yourself shrinking under their eyes, as though everything hinged on what you might say. The wrong word could tilt their judgment, could decide whether you were seen as capable or naïve, trusted or not. And then, softly, Verso’s arm slid behind your back. His hand rested against you, guiding you subtly closer. The gesture sent a shiver through you, both from the intimacy of it, still something you weren’t fully used to in front of others, and from the reassurance it carried.
You drew in a breath, “The situation is… very delicate,” you began carefully, “Because we only have one clue. Something we thought might be proof, but in truth, it raises more questions than it answers.” you paused, glancing across the room, meeting their gazes briefly before continuing, “We found a brooch, yes. But that alone doesn’t prove whether they were there the day of the theft, or only afterwards, when the scrolls were already gone.”
Cléa leaned forward slightly, waiting until you had finished before speaking. Her voice was steadier now, her anger tempered by thought, “But the whole family wore those brooches the first time we saw them. Every one of them. And yesterday, when we saw them again, the daughter didn’t have hers. That makes it obvious whose it is, doesn’t it?”
Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what answer she was hoping for, and you couldn’t give one you didn’t believe, “If it’s truly unique,” you said slowly, “if each of them only has one, then yes… it must be hers. Otherwise…” you let the words trail off, the possibility unfinished.
Alicia was the next to break the silence, her voice quiet, tinged with defeat, “Then in the end, our proof doesn’t mean anything at all?”
You turned toward her, catching her downcast eyes, and something like regret pricked at you, “Yes and no,” you murmured, “At the very least, it’s proof that one of them was there. But we can’t know when… or why.”
Silence pressed in from every side, a knot tightening in your stomach as though the weight of the room had shifted onto your shoulders. You hadn’t meant to crush what little certainty they clung to, but truth mattered more than comfort. Better to keep questions alive than accuse blindly, risking sparks that could burn into war.
Aline’s gaze found you, sharp yet measured. Her voice cut through the stillness, calm but heavy with meaning, “And if it were you, mon enfant? What would you do in our place? Would you speak to them?”
The question startled you. Lips parted, then closed again. Thoughts tangled in circles before a breath steadied you enough to answer, “If you tell them now… it could make everything worse. Maybe it was just the daughter, acting out of desperation. Or maybe the family planned it, a diversion, an attack from inside. Either way… it’s too dangerous.”
At your words, shadows deepened across both Aline and Renoir’s features. You sensed they had already considered the possibility, but hearing it spoken aloud made it solid. Real.
Cléa leaned back, arms crossed, a half-smile playing at her lips, “Well,” she said, walking the line between serious and teasing, “Verso looks better now. That’s what matters most.”
Relief flickered in his parents’ faces, the kind only love for a child could summon. Aline’s eyes softened as they found yours again, “Merci. Whatever you’ve done, merci. But, rell me… what exactly did you do? Do you know how to undo this sort of… spell?”
Heat rose in your face before the words even finished. Verso mirrored your flush, crimson spreading up his neck. There was nothing, no hidden trick, just closeness, soft words, kisses stolen in the dark, the quiet rhythm of two hearts resting against each other. Things you couldn’t possibly say aloud, not here.
Before silence swallowed the moment, Alicia leaned forward, her voice ringing bright, full of sincerity, “They probably confessed. Kissed. Spent the night together, like in a romance novel!”
Your head dropped instantly, eyes fixed on your knees, while Verso’s gaze darted anywhere but on his family, jaw tight, ears aflame. Alicia’s innocence made it worse, her words carried no teasing, only joy for you both, and somehow that left the room even heavier.
Time dragged until Renoir cleared his throat, deliberate, grounding the air. Aline followed with a soft laugh, easing the tension like sunlight through fog, “Peu importe,” she said gently, “However it happened, we are grateful.”
The conversation withered on its own, nothing more to be said without circling the same doubts. Verso rose first, brushing his hand discreetly against yours as if to guide you out of the heavy air, “Come,” he murmured, “you haven’t seen the gardens yet.”
What began as an invitation became a family decision. Chairs scraped back, footsteps echoed together, and soon you found yourself trailing into the open air, the manor’s weight giving way to sunlight and sky.
The gardens unfolded like a world apart. Gravel paths curved through wide lawns, trees heavy with late blossoms throwing patches of shade across the grass. Beds of flowers spilled color in every direction, ivory roses climbing trellises, blue irises swaying gently, clusters of lilies bright against the green. Renoir paused near a row of carnations, fingers brushing a red bloom. He explained, half to himself, that he had planted them years ago for Aline on their anniversary, red for admiration, white for devotion, pink for gratitude. She gave his arm a playful squeeze, lips curving with memory.
Closer to the heart of the gardens stood a wrought-iron gazebo, its roof tangled with vines, petals drifting like confetti whenever the wind stirred. A little further, beneath the spread of an old oak, rope swings dangled, worn smooth by countless hands. The children, once smaller, had begged for them, and Renoir had tied the knots himself. A wooden treehouse clung just above, tucked between branches, its ladder still sturdy, though clearly aged with years of secret climbs and whispered games.
Alicia darted first toward the swings, calling for Cléa to follow, laughter trailing behind her. Renoir and Aline walked arm in arm along the beds, stopping now and then to prune or admire. That left you and Verso with the dogs, Monoco bounding ahead, Noco sticking closer, his head nudging your hand as if demanding constant affection.
On the grass, Verso dropped into a crouch, whistling softly. Monoco came barreling into his arms, tail thrashing like a flag. Noco, meanwhile, leaned more heavily into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You laughed, sinking to your knees to steady him, your fingers sinking into his fur.
When you glanced up, Verso’s gaze was already on you. He had the same look he always wore when his guard slipped, half amusement, half wonder, a quiet awe he never voiced. He reached over, brushing stray strands of hair from your face before his hand lingered at the side of your neck, thumb grazing gently as though the simple contact anchored him.
The dogs, oblivious, wrestled each other onto the grass. Their barks and Alicia’s laughter rang through the air, but for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of you. Verso leaned closer, not quite kissing you, just close enough that his breath mingled with yours, “I think they like you more than me,” he teased softly, nodding toward the dogs.
Your smile betrayed you, tender and nervous all at once. You could only shake your head before letting your forehead brush his, a wordless answer more honest than anything spoken. Above, petals shook loose from the vines wrapped around the gazebo, carried down by the wind until they scattered across your shoulders, his, and the restless fur of the dogs circling you both.
The afternoon stretched on in warmth, Alicia calling from the swings, Cléa daring her higher, Renoir sharing old stories about the treehouse, Aline’s laughter echoing between flowerbeds. Yet even among them, it felt as though the gardens had given you and Verso a small corner of stillness, a place apart, where everything heavy from before dissolved into sunlight and quiet closeness.
From somewhere beyond the flowerbeds, Aline’s voice carried across the garden, calling for Alicia and for you. Dinner, she explained, since you both wanted to learn how to cook. You excused yourself softly, rising from the grass, brushing stray petals from your clothes. Verso surprised you by standing as well, brushing dirt from his palms with a half-smile.
“You’re coming too?” you asked, surprised.
A hint of a smile curved his lips, “Someone has to make sure you don’t burn the kitchen down.” you rolled your eyes but let him walk ahead, heart lighter than you cared to admit.
The kitchen was warm with late light, polished counters gleaming, copper pots catching the glow. Aline selected a heavy book from the shelf, its leather cracked and softened with years of use, and laid it open on the table. Her finger traced the lines until she stopped on a dish, “Here. Poulet à la crème.”
Alicia’s eyes lit with interest, yours followed the careful script as Aline explained. Soon the rhythm of cooking filled the room, the scrape of knives on the board, the low simmer of butter melting in a pan, the rustle of herbs crushed between fingertips. Alicia leaned close beside you, repeating Aline’s gestures as if every movement was a lesson worth remembering. You mirrored them both, cautious at first, then steadier, the scents rising around you, shallots, tarragon, a trace of white wine sharp in the steam.
Behind you, a chair creaked. Verso had taken his seat at the table, chin in his hand, watching. Or rather, watching you. Each time you risked a glance his way, his gaze didn’t falter, as though you were more captivating than the dish slowly taking shape on the stove.
“Are you only going to watch?” Alicia teased, glancing at Verso.
He shrugged, all innocence, “I’m learning. Just… differently.”
“By staring?” her question was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a smile, more amused by the situation than anything else.
“Careful, not too much cream,” Aline reminded gently, guiding your hand with the ladle, “The sauce should coat, not drown.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight in concentration, Alicia stifling a laugh at your seriousness. She leaned close to whisper, “You look like you’re painting a masterpiece.”
By the time the chicken was laid in its sauce, the kitchen smelled alive with richness and warmth, the sort of meal that belonged to laughter and lingering at the table. But Aline wasn’t finished, “Dessert,” she declared, pulling forward a small basket, “something light, something sweet.” strawberries glistened in their bowl, sugar waiting in a porcelain dish, dark chocolate cut into neat squares.
You reached for the fruit, only to notice movement from the corner of your eye, Verso’s hand darting forward, plucking a strawberry. He bit into it before anyone could protest, juice catching at the corner of his mouth.
“Verso,” Aline scolded, her voice more fond than sharp, “wait until we’re finished, or there will be nothing left for the rest of us.”
He leaned back in his chair, utterly unrepentant, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “It’s quality control,” he insisted.
Alicia burst out laughing, nearly dropping the spoon she was stirring with. You shook your head, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. Aline sighed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement, “You can have as many as you like, after.”
He winked at you across the table, as though you were somehow complicit in his theft.
The strawberries dipped in melted chocolate set cooling on a tray, their sheen catching the light like jewels. You worked carefully beside Alicia, arranging them neatly, while Verso watched with the same quiet attention as before, as though each small task, each careful gesture, mattered more than the meal itself.
The last of the chocolate-stained bowls were set aside, the strawberries tucked carefully into the cool of the fridge. You and Alicia moved in tandem, wiping counters, stacking plates, and rinsing utensils. The rhythm of cleaning, simple and mundane, felt oddly satisfying after the intensity of creation. Steam rose from the last of the pans as you scrubbed them, water sloshing softly in the sink, the scent of tarragon and cream lingering in the warm kitchen air.
Aline paused to survey your work, eyes bright with pride, “Well done, both of you,” she said, voice gentle but firm, “You’ve learned quickly, and I couldn’t be more proud. Truly.” She stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on your shoulder, “You’ve done beautifully today. Remember that.”
Alicia beamed, her small hands still damp from washing, while you felt a warmth swell in your chest at Aline’s words. The praise, simple and sincere, grounded you in a way few things had.
Together, Aline and Alicia moved to prepare the table for the meal, arranging plates, silverware, and glasses with meticulous care. Their voices drifted softly as they chatted, leaving the space feeling alive yet orderly. You lingered a moment, watching, until both were out of view around a corner.
Verso stepped closer, his presence sudden but quiet, “I need to check something,” he murmured, voice low, just for you.
You blinked, caught off guard. Before you can respond, his lips meet yours. The kiss is short, tender, and unmistakably deliberate. You taste the sweetness of strawberries, the faint richness of chocolate lingering on him, mingling with the warmth of his touch.
When he pulls back, just enough to tilt his head slightly, he licks his lips and smirks, “Your lips… they taste better than the dessert.”
Heat blooms in your cheeks, fierce and unrelenting. Your words fail you, caught somewhere between surprise and delight. Verso, as if sensing the danger of prolonged vulnerability, turns on his heel, moving away before you can recover from the moment.
It takes a heartbeat, maybe two, for you to descend from your cloud. Heart pounding, you grab your skirts and hurry to catch up, closing the distance between you. His hand finds yours effortlessly, warm and steady, as you fall into step beside him. Together, you move toward the dining room, the scents of the kitchen lingering behind, mingling with the sweet ache of what just passed.
The table was filled with the scents of the meal you had prepared, mingling with the soft warmth of the evening. You took your place beside Verso, the plates laid out before you, the silverware catching the light of the lamps above. Alicia’s voice rang out with excitement, describing each step you had taken together in the kitchen, her words spilling over in rapid, delighted bursts. She gestured and laughed, retelling every little detail, the way you stirred, the way she had almost dropped the strawberries, the careful folding of cream into chocolate.
Everyone listened with smiles, occasionally exchanging quiet chuckles or nods, their attention full of warmth. The conversation flowed naturally, laughter punctuating sentences, the simple joy of shared effort filling the room. You watched their faces, bright and engaged, and felt a comforting weight settle in your chest, the happiness of being included, of having contributed, of being part of something alive and full of care. You mirrored Alicia’s enthusiasm quietly, adding your own little recollections when prompted, the room alive with voices weaving around each other.
By the time dishes were cleared and the last crumbs swept from the table, fatigue weighed heavily on you. Every muscle ached pleasantly, your body vibrating with the accumulation of excitement, nerves, and effort. Verso’s hand found yours, warm and insistent, guiding you silently toward his room.
Once inside, you dug through your bag for a change of clothes, pulling out something soft and simple for the night. You didn’t hesitate to shed the day’s garments, letting them fall where they may, the fabric of your pajamas comforting against your skin. Though a flush of shyness lingered, it was fleeting, there was only one thought pressing against your mind, to change, to sink into calm.
Dressed, you looked up to see him already on the bed, lying on his side, waiting. He had been quick, efficient, quiet. The bed looked impossibly inviting, and the sight of him there made your pulse quicken.
You paused for a heartbeat, then, with careful deliberation, slid under the covers. The warmth of the sheets enveloped you as you curled against him, his arms immediately wrapping around you, holding you closer. The day’s tension, the excitement, the nervous energy, all seemed to melt away in the press of his body, the steady beat of his heart against yours.
His hands moved over your back, slow and gentle, tracing soothing circles, “You look like you’ve had quite the day,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “Had fun?”
A soft smile tugged at your lips. You pressed your cheek against his chest, letting it serve as a pillow, “More than I thought I could handle,” you admitted, voice quiet, tired but content, “It’s the first time I’ve spent this much energy in a day… and I feel like I could sleep forever.”
You tilted your head slightly, catching a glance of him in the dim light, his expression soft but focused on you. The warmth of the day, the closeness, the steady presence of him, everything settled into a quiet glow in your chest.
“I think…” you whispered, voice barely above the rustle of sheets, “that today might have been… one of the best days I’ve ever had. Exhausting, but good. Really good.”
Verso tightened his hold, nuzzling the top of your head, “Then rest,” he murmured, “I’ll be right here.”
You let your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of sleep pressing down gently, the security of his arms and the soft brush of his hands across your back lulling you into a rare calm. A small, tired smile lingered on your face as you allowed yourself to simply be, your thoughts slowing until only warmth, comfort, and the faint hum of closeness remained.
The next morning, or at least it felt like morning, you found yourself back at your desk. Sunlight poured softly through the window, brushing surfaces with warmth, and the faint scent of the garden lingered in the air. In your hand rested a delicate quill, its plume soft and feathered, the tip catching the light as you flexed your fingers around it.
You dipped it into the inkwell, dark liquid smooth and rich, and began to write. The words flowed easily at first, calm and comforting, like a continuation of yesterday’s laughter, strawberries, and warmth. The rhythm of the quill against the paper was hypnotic, grounding, almost soothing.
A strange sensation crept along your veins. They shimmered in the color of the ink, pulsing with every heartbeat, indigo at first, then green, gold, violet, pink, each shade thrilling, alive. Your chest tightened slightly, but curiosity mixed with fascination.
But then, the colors darkened. Red spread along your arms, deepening to black, snaking through your veins as if the ink had a will of its own. Panic clawed at your ribs as the darkness surged toward your heart, filling your chest with pressure. Every inhale felt labored, your lungs straining against an invisible weight. The quill slipped from your fingers, clattering to the desk, powerless against the blackness racing inside you. Vision blurred, light fading into shadow at the edges, until the world seemed consumed by ink. A suffocating dread coiled in your chest, relentless. Your breaths came fast, shallow, and sharp.
Suddenly, you gasped, jolting upright. Heart hammering, sweat dampening your hair and skin, the room was still, silent, the quill gone. Darkness lingered, heavy and thick, pressing against your chest, but a faint sound reached you, the distant notes of a piano. Soft, deliberate, soothing, the rhythm wrapped around your frayed nerves. Gradually, your heartbeat slowed, lungs unclenched, and your trembling hands wiped at the sweat on your brow.
Even as calm began to seep back, the memory of the ink spreading, of veins and heart and chest consumed, refused to vanish entirely. A subtle whisper remained in the edges of your mind, something was stirring. Something within you, awakening.
You took a deep, shuddering breath, letting the air fill your lungs, holding it for a moment as if to convince yourself that the world was real. Your eyes swept across the room, taking in the familiar shapes, the soft light filtering through the curtains. Fingers brushed over your arms, your shoulders, tracing the lines of your body, grounding yourself in the solid certainty of flesh and bone. You pinched the skin on your arm, felt the mattress where Verso had been lying, caressing it lightly, as if testing the edges of reality itself. Each movement reassured you, yes, it was all real, not a shadow, not a whisper of black ink racing through your veins.
The memory of the dream still clung to the corners of your mind, but slowly, deliberately, you rose from the bed. Carefully, you pulled on your day clothes, each motion measured, almost ritualistic, letting the tactile normalcy anchor you. When you were ready, you stepped from the bedroom, following the faint strains of music that drifted through the house.
The notes led you to a doorway left wide open. Beyond, the room unfolded, a sunlit, spacious chamber, filled with warmth. Verso sat at the piano, fingers poised above the keys, paused mid-song as he sensed your presence. The notes hung in the air, unfinished, delicate, waiting.
You hesitated at the threshold, heart still beating fast from the remnants of fear. His gaze found yours, concern softening the edges of his smile, “Are you alright?” he asked gently, voice low, “Did you sleep well?”
You returned a small, shy smile, stepping closer until you reached him. Rising onto your toes, you pressed a brief kiss to his temple, a quiet anchor. Your arms wrapped around his neck from behind, fingers lacing together at the nape, “It was only a nightmare,” you murmured, letting the words soothe both yourself and the lingering echoes of terror.
Verso shifted on the bench, turning to face you fully, his arms immediately circling your waist. His eyes searched yours with quiet intensity, “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.
You shook your head gently, still holding him close, “No,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, “even I couldn’t explain it. I don’t… I don’t know how.”
He nodded slowly, taking your hand in his to plant a reassuring kiss on the back of it, letting you cling to him as the lingering shadows of the nightmare receded, leaving only the steady warmth of his embrace and the faint echo of the piano keys in the air.
You stayed in his arms, your hands drifting slowly into his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands. The simple contact drew a shiver from him, barely there, but you felt it ripple beneath your palms. His shoulders loosened, his breathing deepened, and you could sense him settling against your touch. For a while, you said nothing, only letting your fingertips massage lightly at the crown of his head, grounding both of you in the quiet intimacy.
Your gaze slid past him, landing on the piano. The polished surfaced gleamed faintly in the morning light, and the ivory keys reflected the faintest glow like rows of silent teeth. Something about its stillness pulled at you, the unspoken invitation of it. You hesitated, then spoke softly, your voice barely above the hush of the room, “Would you… play for me?”
Verso lifted his head, eyes meeting yours, surprise flickering briefly before softening into something warmer, “Of course,” he said gently, “Do you have a song in mind? Something you’d like to hear?”
You went quiet. The question echoed in your mind, and you sifted through what little you knew. You had heard music, yes, snippets of classics drifting from windows, simple melodies hummed like lullabies, half-remembered nursery rhymes that clung to childhood. But compared to him, compared to the way his life seemed to bleed music, you had nothing. No cultivated taste, no favorite ballads.
Your silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. When at last you shrugged, a small gesture of helpless honesty, you whispered, “I don’t know… play what you want.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he straightened on the bench. He patted the space beside him, it was wide enough for two, and you slipped into the seat next to him. His shoulder brushed yours, a quiet, comforting contact.
“Joyful? Somber?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.
You leaned your cheek against his shoulder, closing your eyes for just a moment, “Something romantic,” you murmured.
His breath left him in a soft sigh, not exasperated, but touched, resigned in the way someone might be when they’d already known the answer before they asked, “Of course,” he replied, voice a murmur of warmth.
Then his hands moved, and the piano bloomed to life. The first notes unfurled like silk, smooth and deliberate, wrapping around you with tender insistence. Each chord was careful, considered, as though he were laying petals one by one into your lap. The air thickened with melody, soft yet vibrant, carrying with it a kind of gravity that drew you inward, pressed at the edges of your chest.
You let yourself sink into it, your head heavy against his shoulder. The music curled through you, slow and deliberate, and suddenly it was no longer a song but a vision. You could see it, the gilded glow of chandeliers, the polished marble of a ballroom floor. Couples twirled in graceful arcs, dresses sweeping, shoes gliding, eyes locked in silent confessions. The piano’s voice became the violins, the cellos, the very heartbeat of the room. You had never been to a ball, not truly. As a child, you’d overheard the whispers of adults, their sighs over invitations and gowns, and you had never understood the fuss. It had seemed frivolous, meaningless. But now, with the music cradling you, carrying you, you saw what it could be. Lovers spinning in each other’s arms, gazes tender, losing themselves in a rhythm made only for them. You felt the ache of it, the longing.
And in that vision, you were there, awkward at first, your feet uncertain, but Verso’s hands steady at your waist, guiding you through the dance. You could almost feel the way he would anchor you, leading with quiet assurance, letting you stumble if you must but never letting you fall. Around you, the imagined couples blurred into insignificance. Only him, only his gaze, only the way his steps taught you how to move.
The music swelled, and your mind wandered further. You saw yourself and him slipping from the hall, fingers twined, laughter hushed against the backdrop of celebration. A balcony under the stars, or a quiet garden lit only by lanterns. There, away from the crowd, you would dance again, no audience, no eyes, only the rustle of leaves and the weight of his hands at your back.
And your imagination, greedy, wild, carried you still further. You saw yourself clothed in white, flowers trembling in your grip. The notes of the piano became an anthem of vows, of promises whispered with eyes and lips and touches. Verso before you, steady, radiant, and yours. You were dancing not in borrowed spaces but in one of your own making, a circle drawn only around the two of you. Your heart swelled so fiercely that it almost hurt, and in the haze of it you closed your eyes tighter, clutching at the music as though it could fuse with your ribs and stay there forever.
And then, his voice, close, near your ear. You startled, realizing you had missed the words entirely. Blinking your eyes open, you caught his gaze, bemused and tender, “Did you say something?” you asked, sheepish.
A soft laugh escaped him, more fond than mocking, “Dreaming so deep you don’t even hear me anymore?” he teased lightly. His fingers stilled on the keys, and silence filled the air before he added, “I said, next month is la fête de la musique.”
Your head shot up, eyes widening, “Already? Time is slipping so fast…”
The reaction coaxed a smile from him, warm and amused. He turned back to the keys, starting anew, this time a melody gentler but still touched by romance, a quieter confession woven into each note.
He played for a while before speaking again, hesitating as though weighing the words, “If you want… you can watch me practice, in the weeks ahead. And maybe…” he glanced at you, gauging your reaction, “Maybe I could teach you a little. Show you how to play.”
The words rooted in your mind, unfurling with slow wonder. To listen to him, yes, that alone would have been a gift. But to learn? To place your own fingers where his had been, to join him in the music instead of only listening, it was something you had never dared to imagine.
Your eyes lit up, bright and eager, and you nodded quickly, “Yes. Yes, I’d love that,” then you faltered, doubt rising sharp and sudden. Your enthusiasm cooled into hesitation, and you bit your lip, “But… what if I’m no good at it?”
He noticed, of course. He always did. He stopped playing, turning to you fully. One hand lifted, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingertips lingering against your cheek, “You’ll do fine,” he said softly, conviction lacing each word, “I’ll be there. I’ll guide you.”
The warmth in his gaze smoothed the fear from your chest, and you let yourself lean into his hand, breathing in his reassurance. And then he kissed you. Not tentative, not shy, but with a slow-burning intensity that curled fire through your veins. His lips pressed against yours, and you melted, letting the kiss deepen, your hand rising to his jaw, holding him closer. For a moment, the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the steady weight of his hands at your waist, the soft hum of breath shared between you.
When he drew back, the sunlight caught in the glass panes, scattering gold across his face, across the polished wood of the piano. He smiled against the lingering closeness, a promise in his eyes. And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned back to the keys, his fingers finding their place again. The music returned, richer now, a song of light and tenderness, and you listened, your heart full, your mind still painting visions with every note, but now, each one tethered firmly to him, to the warmth of his embrace and the certainty of his presence.
When she woke up the sun had already set ouside, silver moonlight illuminating the room. She sat up and looked around, confused for a moment of where she was but then she remembered. She must have fallen asleep to his piano play. So that meant he probably carried her to his bed. Her face turned red at the thought of it but a small smile formed around her lips. She got up from the bed and looked around the dimly lit room. There were shelves with books and little bits and bops here and there. She noticed a funny looking plushie on the nightstand next to the bed and couldn't help but smile at the idea of him probably taking a little part of his childhood with him as a reminder.
She opened the door and could hear soft notes being played on the piano, the room filled with the warm light of the fireplace. So he was still up. Nearing the living room she stopped in her tracks and just watched him play for a while. The white shirt was hanging more loosely to his slim form, most likely being untucked from his trousers, his feet were bare and he had put his raven hair in a lose bun. He was stopping his play every now and then, taking notes on a sheet of paper. He was composing a song. The moon was shining through the window, making him look like he was glowing somehow. He truly was a beautiful man, she would be a fool to deny that.
She took a step forward, the wood creaking under her foot causing him to turn around "You're awake" he stated with a smile "How long have I been sleeping?" she asked sheepishly and his smile grew a bit wider "A few hours, it's almost 1 am now" he said and she could feel her eyes grow wide "I'm sorry, I did not mean to..maybe I should leave" she said and he furrowed his brows "And you think I would let you leave? All alone? In the middle of the night?" he asked, his face softening again and she chuckled lightly "Probably not" she smiled, feeling herself grow a little shy, her gaze going anywhere but to his face now "I don't mind sleeping on the couch if that is what worries you" he said and she finally looked at him again "Oh..I uh..no, I was not thinking that..well" she stumbled over her words and he chuckled lightly, getting up from his stool and walked towards her.
She noticed he had unbottened his shirt slightly and felt heat creeping up towards her cheeks at the sight of his long neck, a bit of dark chest hair on display. "You okay?" he asked and she could see an amused grin on his face "Why would I not be?" she asked, a bit more boldly now, a playful twinkle in her eyes and he fell silent for a moment. They were staring at each other in silence and she could feel her mouth go dry. The moonlight was shining on his face, making him look almost ethereal in that moment and as if enchanted she raised a hand towards his face, her fingers brushing gently over his cheek causing him to close his eyes "Verso.." she said softly and he opened his eyes once more, his lips slightly parting, the tension in the air was palpable and it felt like time was standing still for a moment.
She could feel his face getting closer and just before their lips almost touched a loud thunder was rolling through the air causing her to startle, a nervous giggle leaving her lips "I..I think I should go back to bed" she said with a raspy voice and he almost looked somewhat disappointed but then smiled gently at her. "Good night Ophelia" he said softly and she gulped slightly. Without further thinking she got on her tiptoes and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, a shaky breath escaping his lips. Their eyes met once more and they both smiled gently at each other before finally parting.
With one last look at him she turned and went back to the bedroom. As she layed in the bed she covered her face with her hands and sighed heavily. Then sleep washed over her once more and the nightmare began.
She was walking down the corridor, the ground was shaking, she could hear her mother call for her. When she entered her room a strange smell was hitting her face, a scent of something foul, almost venomous. Her mother was looking at her with a pleading face, sweaty strands clung to her face. As she took her hands in her sweaty palms she gripped Ophelia's hands with an almost painfully tight grip "They are all lying. Lying." she said with wide, glassy eyes and gripped her hands even tighter "Maman..you're hurting me" she said, tears filling her eyes "Lies" she said once more and then a loud crash.
Ophelia awoke with a scream, panic taking over, her whole body was shaking. In the distance she could hear footsteps getting closer and then a light touch on her shoulders, shaking her gently from her daze. "Ophelia, are you allright?" Verso said, his face a grimace of concern. "A nightmare..my mother..I.." she began with a shaky voice before breaking down in tears. His arms wrapped around her in an instant and she clung to him as if he was her last straw. "You're okay, it's gonna be allright. Hey look at me.." he said after a while and she looked at him, his eyes looking so gentle, causing her skin to tingle. He took her face in his warm palms and she could feel her breath hitch in her throat at the touch "I'm here" he said softly and she blinked away the remaining tears "I know.." she said quietly and then their lips finally touched.
The kiss was slow and gentle, his lips moving against hers in soft, deliberate motions, a soft sigh escaped her lips and he immediately used the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, their tongues meeting in a passionate dance. She couldn't tell for how long they had kissed when they eventually came up for air. They looked at each other, both smiling and Verso took her hands in his, kissing each knuckle softly "Verso?" she asked quietly and he looked at her with his storm-grey eyes, a slight concern returning to his face "Y-yes?" "Can you..can you stay?" she asked with a small voice and his gaze turned gentle again "I am..just scared that the nightmares will return once I've closed my eyes and..I just don't want to be alone" she admitted. He just wordlessly moved them both, laying on his back pulling her towards him in a swift motion. Her head rested on his chest and she was holding onto him like he was her rock in a stormy sea. He gently kissed the top of her head and with the steady beating of his heart and the sound of his breath to her ear she finally drifted off to sleep again, this time without nightmares.
summary: after the banquet things go a little crazy
pairings: real!Verso x fem!OC
warnings: some angsty angst, overall tension, some fluff/comfort ofc
This is the longest chapter so far oops, things are slowly starting to cook here
Enjoy :)
Verso awoke with a slight headache, memories of the night returning to his mind in a flashback.
After he had returned into the great hall to look for Ophelia things went a bit wild, to say the least. They shared plenty glasses of wine, after a while he stopped counting how much they were actually drinking. The night was filled with music, dancing and laughter "You know, one time, my brother Philippe would bring a girl home" Ophelia lulled into Verso's ear with a giggle, her hot breath fanning against his ear, causing him to shiver slightly "And they retired to his room right after they arrived. I coul hear them having..fun all night" Ophelia giggled and poured them both another glass of wine "He is my father's favourite, you know, always has been" she said with a hiccup and Verso snorted "Reminds me of my older sister Clea. She is as perfect as can be" Verso said, not sounding any less drunk "It's annoying isn't it just?" Ophelia said with a grin and continued "and yet you cannot help but loving them regardless" she sighed.
They stumbled outside and sat on a bench, the cool night air felt pleasantly refreshing. Verso took another sip from his glass und turned to look at the young woman next to him, she was gazing at the stars with an unreadable expression, the moonlight softly illuminating her pale face, making her look like an enchantress from a story book "I will never be as good as him" she said in a sad tone and Verso's brows furrowed in confusion when she looked at him again "Philippe" she added and he gave her an understanding smile, the wine clearly making him feel light-headed when he softly placed his hand on top of hers "You don't need to be like him, it's enough when you are just..you" he said and she quirked one of her brows with an amused grin. The air seemed to shift and she shuddered slightly. Verso immediately took of his jacket and placed it gently around her shoulders. Ophelia sighed softly and then she suddenly started to chuckle, which then turned into giggles and he looked at her with confusion and amusement at the same time "Look at us, being all sappy and shit-faced" she laughed and he couldn't help but laugh with her. "I think I should go now, tomorrow is going to be enough of a horror after all this wine" she giggled and he smiled softly at her, stopping her in her tracks when she wanted to take off the jacket "Keep it, don't want you to catch a cold" he said and she smirked slightly "Such a gentleman, aren't you?" she said in an almost flirtatious tone and he could feel his mouth go dry at that "Fine then..I shall keep it. Thank you" she said quietly and he couldn't help but staring at her like a lost puppy and then shook his head slightly "You're uh..most welcome" he said and she rose from the bench "See you tomorrow, Verso. Good night." she said and he could have melted right away at her smile once more "Good night Ophelia" he said with a raspy voice and with a last chuckle she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He let out a deep sigh and took a last sip from his wine.
He could have slapped himself in the face for drinking so much, the headache making it hard for him to focus at times, much to the dismay of his teacher. The rest of the day went by in a blur and when he stepped outside of the building, lost in thought, he ran into no other than Monsieur Lefevre "Ah Monsieur Dessendre" the older man said with a polite smile and Verso couldn't help but recall the conversation between the man and Ophelia that he had overheard the night before "Monsieur Lefevre, I was just on my way home" Verso said, kind of wanting to escape the situation for a reason he couldn't quite decipher "I suppose you did enjoy yourself last night a bit too much, didn't you?" he said with an amused twinkle in his eye and Verso could feel his face turn red at the statement "I uh..well it was..surely was a fun night" he stammered and the older man chuckled slightly "I know you were there" he added with a more serious tone now "Monsieur?" Verso asked, feeling his throat constricting
"When I had that..conversation with my daughter. I saw you trailing after us" he said and Verso felt a shower of anxiety go down his back "I did not mean to..I was just..I am sorry" he stammered and the man in front of him sighed heavily "It is not an easy task sometimes..being a father, you know. I do not blame you for following us, I saw you getting along quite well with Ophelia" the man said and continued "but I'd rather advice you to keep your nose out of other people's businesses" Verso gulped slightly "I..yes..I am sorry once more, Monsieur" he said sheepishly and the man smiled slightly "You know there is a lot of tension in the air with all that trouble between the painters and writers, I do not wish for my own daughter to be involved into any of that. You do undertand that, do you?" he said the last bit rather sharply and Verso nodded "Of course Monsieur..I understand" He felt like a child being scolded for misbehaving, conversations that reminded him all to well of his own mother. "Well now..I shall see you tomorrow" the older man said and bid his farewell with one last bow of his head.
All the way home to his apartment Verso's head was spinning. Once he returned home, he took a hot, long bath. As he layed in the tub he let out a heavy sigh. The conversation with Monsieur Lefevre had confused him ,to say the least, something about it felt terribly off. Why mentioning the feud between writers and painters? What did he have to do with that? He closed his eyes and for a moment he saw Ophelia's face in front of his inner eye. He recalled the way she looked under the moonlight, how her eyes twinkled when she spoke to him, the soft smile playing around her soft pink lips.."God, get it together Dessendre, you only know her for two days" he silently scolded himself and rubbed his hands over his face. Out of all people that could have sparked an interest in him it had to be her.
He finished his bath and slipped into his night clothes and sat on the stool in front of his piano. He closed his eyes for a moment and her laughter echoed in his ear. Why did it have to be her? He sighed once more and began to play the first notes on his piano.
As the days went by Verso could feel himself growing more and more frustrated. The lessons went well, in just a span of two weeks he had learned so many new things about composing and harmonizing melodies and he felt grateful for all the knowledge he had gained. But everytime he attempted to talk to Ophelia he could basically feel her father's gaze on the back of his head. He recalled the conversation with him over and over again and was left with a feeling of sheer anxiety about it. And she must have noticed that. Of course she did. For someone as observant as her it was easy to notice when people around her changed and behaved differently towards her. He saw her smiling and laughing less and less and couldn't help but to feel responsible for that.
He wandered down the corridor when suddenly a door opened and he was pulled inside the room. The door shut and he had to blink a few times, adjusting to the dim light, just to be met with a pair of familiar green eyes. Her face looked more pale than usual, dark circles under her eyes and he felt his heart sinking at the sight of her "You are ignoring me" she simply stated and he lowered his gaze, avoiding eye contact "It's not..I mean..I.." he started to stammer again "Use your words, Dessendre. I simply want to know why. Did I do anything wrong? Was it something I said?" she said sharply but he could hear the sad undertone in her voice.
He took a deep breath "That night at the banquet..I saw you and your father.." she inhaled sharply at that but he continued "I..I followed you and I heard your conversation. Your father..he knew. The next day he stopped me on my way home and..he basically told me to keep my nose out of your business and that I should not get you into any kind of troubles" he said, his voice sounding more steady than he thought it would. She didn't respond for a moment and he almost feared that she would just leave but then a bitter laugh escaped her lips " Yeah, that definitely sounds like him" "He also said something about all that tension in the air because of the feud between the writers and painters" he added and that sparked her interest "Did he? You know, my father is part of the council, he's trying to end this feud for quite some time already" she said, her thoughts seemed to be miles away "But what does he have to do with that? I mean he is neither a writer nor a painter.." Verso said "My mother..she was a writer and when she..passed my father took her spot in the council, naturally" she said quietly and he finally looked into her eyes
"I..am so sorry" he said and couldn't stop himself from taking one of her hands in his. He felt stupid for a moment at the thought of her father being involved into something suspicious. He simply wanted to protect his daughter. "It's okay..it's been so long since she passed" she said with a sad smile and he could feel his own heart ache over her pain "I know Papa does not want me to get involved with neither writers nor painters because of that feud. But..you don't really seem like a painter at all. I mean you are here..would you really be here if your heart was fully committed to painting?" she said with an almost pained smile and he could see tears forming in her eyes but she continued "He says he only wants what's best for me but how could he know what is best for me..he is basically never there when I need him. He doesn't really know me. My PERFECT brother, he always knew what he wanted and my father fully supported him all the way whereas I always just seem to be second best" she blurted out and tears started to finally roll down her face.
Before he could even think any further he simply pulled her into his embrace, arms softly wrapping around her petite figure, her head resting against his chest wetting his shirt with her tears. For a moment he just held her like this until she had calmed down again. Their eyes met once more and she sighed "I am tired Verso. Tired of trying. Tired of pretending to be someone I am not. Tired of making efforts when it's all for naught. I am tired of never being enough.." tears started forming in her eyes once more and she said the last bit so quietly as if she hoped that he might not hear her say it. But he did. "You are enough, Ophelia, you will always be enough" he said it so earnestly that tears streamed down her face once more, her lower lip starting to tremble and he added "Trust me, if there is anyone to ever know what it feels like to never fit in, it's me. You are not alone"
For a moment they just stared at each other, the air felt almost electrified with all the tension in it. And then she smiled, finally truly smiled and he couldn't help but smile back "I know my father can be quite..intimidating sometimes" she said with a grimace and he chuckled slightly "Oh he certainly can..and I was stupid enough to hide away like a scared dog" he said and she giggled slightly "Then no more hiding. I like you Verso, I really do and I don't care about what my father says about painters and all that" she said now more boldly and he smiled gently at her, her words making him feel all warm and fuzzy "No more hiding then" he said and she grinned, that twinkle finally returning to her eyes.
As the day approached its end he made his way to the exit of the building. Ophelia was saying goodbye to one of her classmates when she saw him and he walked towards her with a grin "You know, there is going to be a fair tomorrow. Carousels, lots of food and all that and I was wondering if..you know.." she said with an unusual shyness and he could feel his heart swelling in his chest "Yes" he blurted out and she laughed "You did not even know what I was going to say" she giggled and he shrugged his shoulders with a grin "But fine then..I am looking forward to it. Let's say tomorrow at 4 at the market place?" she said with a smile "Sounds good to me" he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible but with the way she grinned at him he just couldn't stop the smile from spreading on his face.
They parted ways, waving their hands at each other one last time and Verso trotted back to his apartment, all the way he couldn't help the shit-eating grin that was forming on his face.
The next day Verso found himself standing in front of his mirror. He wore a simple white button-up shirt, black trousers and black leather shoes. The weather looked sunny and inviting, so he didn't think a jacket would be necessary. He combed his hair and then gave himself a fresh shave, applying some cologne afterwards. He felt himself becoming more and more nervous. He checked the clock : 10 minutes until 4 pm, it was a 15 minute walk to the market place "Oh merde" he exclaimed quietly. He took his keyes, checked his reflection one last time and then rushed outside. He could already see her as he was approaching the market place. She was wearing a white blouse tucked into a simple ankle length navy blue skirt paired with black shoes, her hair was put into a simple french braid. The moment she saw him she grinned "You're late" she stated with a smirk and he nervously scratched the back of his head "Sorry I uh..got distracted" he said and the amused grin only grew wider "By your own reflection? Don't worry, you look quite dashing" she said and he could feel himself turning crimson.
They walked their way to the fair in silence, Verso was the first to break it "So uhm..did you tell your father that we are meeting up?" he asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice and she looked at him with a faint smile "He is on a congress over the weekend, so he doesn't know about it" she said and he simply nodded. They entered the fair, the sweet scent of popcorn and chocolate hitting their faces "So, in for a ride?" she asked with a grin and pointed to the carousel "Do you even need to ask" he retorted and she smiled happily at him with an almost childlike excitement, he could feel his heart soar at the sight of it.
After 4 rides they finally decided to get something to eat and once they got themselves some cotton candy, popcorn and chocolate-coated fruits they sat on a bench a bit outside from the fair. They munched in silence, grinning at each other every now and then the first distant thunder started to roll. In all their excitement they didn't even notice how cloudy the sky had become and just as Ophelia took the first bite of her last chocolate-coated strawberry the first raindrops fell "Oh merde" she said and Verso couldn't hold back a grin at her cursing. Before they knew it the rain started to fall in heavier drops, slowly turning into a downpour "What are we to do?" she asked with a frown and Verso said the first thing that came to his mind "I do not live very far from here, if we run we can be there in 10 minutes" he said and he saw her considering his words, a lightning bolt illuminating the sky. "Putain..allright let's go" she said and they started to run.
The road was turning into a small river, making it hard to run with steady feet and Ophelia slipped a little every now and then. Without further thinking Verso took her hand in his own and they continued running until he could see the boulangerie "Almost there" he exclaimed "You live above a bakery?" she asked with a giggle but he didn't answer. They finally made it into the building and climbed up the stairs to Verso's apartment. Once inside Ophelia started laughing at the absurdity of the situation and he couldn't help but laugh with her "Wait here, I get you some towels and uh..dry clothes" he said and she simply nodded. A minute later he came back with towels, a shirt and a pair of trousers and she quirked her brow with an amused grin "Sorry, I am out of women's clothes" he joked and she giggled, taking the clothes with a grateful smile "Bathroom is down the corridor on the left" he said sheepishly "Thank you".
When she came back he already had lit the fire in his little fireplace, their clothes neatly hung up to dry "Who would have known that you're so domestic" she said and he turned around. The clothes were way too big on her tiny body and he felt his heart pound at the adorable sight of her "I feel like a five year old trying on her father's clothes" she exclaimed with a frown and that elicited a laugh from him, causing her to laugh with him. As she got herself comfortable he lit the stove and put a kettle with water on it to make some tea, in the meantime he went to the bathroom changing his own clothes.
As he got back the water was ready "I only got some black tea" he said "Fine with me" she said and he handed her the cup. They sat on the little couch and she started to look around the room until she noticed the piano by the window "I've actually never heard you play" she said with a playfoul pout and he chuckled lightly. He took a sip from his cup and set it on the table "Any wishes, Mademoiselle?" he asked with a little bow and she giggled "Just play whatever you feel like" she said and the simple statement startled him for a brief moment. He was not really used to people giving him choices.
He cleared his throat and sat on his stool, giving her one last grin before starting to play. His fingers moved in swift motions over the keys, creating a melody he had composed himself not too long ago. He felt himself getting lost into the music, each note making him feel like he could take over the world, his eyes closing in delight. When his hands stilled he took a deep breath opening his eyes and slowly turned his head to the side noticing that she had sat next to him just now. She had the softest of smiles on her face and he could feel his heart pounding hard at the proximity.
"It's enchanting isn't it? When the music takes over your body?" she asked quietly and he nodded "Would you mind playing me some more?" she asked with a little voice, sounding almost childlike. Without answering he started to play another tune, this time it was a calm, almost soothing kind of song. She carefully rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes with a smile. Verso ignored his pounding heart and kept playing until he came to an end once more. Her body was resting against his, her chest falling and rising in calm motions. She had fallen asleep.
He carefully moved around to pick her up from the stool, carrying her to his bed. As he lay her down he tucked her into the blanket, his face dangerously close to hers and he gulped. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, her scent filling his nose. She smelled of sweet popcorn mingled with a very own kind of scent that was a mix of something minty and a hint of lilacs. She looked entirely peaceful and a soft smile played around his lips as he felt himself bending down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.
There was no more denying anything to himself, he was falling head over heals for this woman.
summary: the first day of something new most likely has its challenges..
pairing: real!Verso x !fem!OC
And so it begins. This chapter is somewhat longer. Expect a flustered Verso and some slight angst by the end of the chapter (oops)
Enjoy :)
People gathered in the grand entrance hall of the conservatory, young, with hopeful and excited expressions on their faces. The air was filled with chatter and laughter. Verso looked around and couldn't help but smile slightly to himself. He had never been surrounded by so many people who shared a similar passion and love for music in the same way he did. Excitement took hold of him when the voice of an older man rose above the crowd and everyone fell silent in an instant.
"Welcome, welcome, to yet another, hopefully successful, new year at the conservatory. I see many new faces and some more..familiar ones" the man said with a light smile, looking around the room while everyone looked at him with anticipation "Tonight we shall celebrate the start of the new year properly with a banquet in the great hall. For now I'd advise you to explore, learn and most of all enjoy your first day. You may leave to your classes now" the man said and the crowd cheered with applause, parting into different directions.
Verso looked at his schedule and noticed that he had some time before the first class would start, no idea where to go first, so he decided to explore the building a bit. He saw the man who had greeted everyone, who happened to be the director Monsieur Lefevre, talking to a few students. The man looked at him and smiled slightly, nodding his head as a greeting and Verso politely nodded back. He started to wander down corridors, stairs up, stairs down, the whole place was huge to say the least and he almost feared to get lost.
Well, apperantly he had gotten lost. He turned around the corner of yet another passageway when he could hear the faint sounds of a violin. As if pulled by an invisible string he followed the sound of it, each note starting to echo louder as he was nearing an open door. He carefully peeked into the room which happened to be a little concert hall. The place was empty, only a young woman standing on the small stage playing the violin. Her figure was small and graceful, her auburn hair flowing down her back in soft waves, the light above the stage almost making it look like it was glowing. When she turned he could see that her eyes were closed, being completely lost in the music. He felt his breath grow shallow, feeling completely entranced by the young woman's music and silently took a seat in one of the lower ranks of the hall. There was a sadness in her play that he could not decipher and yet he felt himself smiling softly. She played a few more notes, this time more passionately, until she finally finished her song. She was breathing heavily and he could see her hands slightly shaking when she lowered her violin. She finally opened her eyes and for a moment he felt like all of the air had left his lungs when she directly looked into his face with a slightly startled expression.
"I uh..I did not mean to..sorry, I was just.." he stammered, stumbling over each word and her face looked rather amused now "You must be new here, I have never seen you before" she spoke with a soft voice that caused a shiver to run down his spine and he nodded "Yes uh..it's my first day, I was exploring the place and uh..got lost a bit" he said and nervously scratched the back of his head "Should have guessed" she chuckled and put the violin back into its case, picked it up and climbed down the stairs of the stage, walking towards him. Verso got up from his seat and almost fell over his own two feet, embarassment creeping up his neck, he felt like a complete idiot. As she stood in front of him she extended her hand towards him with a soft smile "I'm Ophelia, second year. And you are..?" he shook her hand and cleared his throat "Verso, my name's Verso" he said and she smiled a little wider now. He noticed now that she was a lot shorter than him, her auburn hair framing her soft face that was looking at him with the greenest pair of eyes he had ever seen, almost shining like emeralds, soft freckles spread over her face, making her look younger than she probably was. She was beautiful to say the least and he felt his face getting somewhat warmer. "Mind if I take a look at your schedule? Maybe I can help" she said and he gave her a greatful smile and handed the schedule over to her, for the shortest of moments the tips of their fingers touched and he could feel another shiver run down his spine but shook off the feeling almost immediately, feeling like a fool. "Piano, huh? Your first lesson actually is not far from here, I can take you there if you like" she said with an amused grin "That uh..yeah that would be lovely actually" he said and she nodded "Follow me then".
They walked down a few corridors, Verso internally tried to take notes so he could find the way again, until they finally reached the destination, the door to the room already open. A pang of something that almost felt like disappointment shot through Verso's body over the fact that they had to depart "I guess I see you around. You will come to the banquet, will you?" she said with that soft smile again and he could feel heat creeping up his neck once more "Yeah uh..most likely" he chuckled. "Don't hesitate to ask if you should need anymore uhm..guidance. I basically know this place like the inside of my own jacket" she offered and he nodded with a smile "I might do that more often than I would like to admit in the next days" he said and she giggled, the sound of it causing his skin to tingle. He just met that woman, what on earth was she doing to him?! "Goodbye for now..Verso" she said with a grin and turned on her heel, walking away with light steps. He sighed and then chuckled softly to himself while entering the classroom, looking at her disappearing form one last time "Goodbye..Ophelia."
The day had passed so quickly with all the lessons that it felt like minutes rather than hours. Back in his apartment Verso took a quick bath and changed into something more fitting for the evening banquet. He felt himself getting excited at the thought of seeing Ophelia again. A small smile spread over his face and he shook his head as if to shake off the feeling.
The evening air was still rather crisp when he made his way back to the conservatory. He could hear loud chatter and laughing mixed with music when he entered the building. As he entered the great hall he couldn't help but stop in his tracks, taking in the sight of it. Grand chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft light. There was a small orchestra on the stage, most likely students, and that's when he spotted her. Ophelia. She was wearing a light blue dress, her reddish locks put into an intricate updo. She was talking to a fellow student and the two young women giggled at something when suddenly she turned around to look at him. She made her way towards him and stopped in front of him with a grin "You made it" she said and he chuckled "I did, didn't I" he said and she grinned a bit wider at his words. Her friend was calling her name and gestured for her to come back to the stage "Guess that's my call" she said and with one last smile she joined the orchestra. Everyone took a seat and the orchestra started to play. All the while he couldn't help but looking at her. Her eyes were closed like she did when he saw her playing for the first time, completely lost in the music and he could feel warmth bulding up in his stomach at the sight of it.
After a while the music came to an end and the audience applauded. Monsieur Lefevre entered the stage "Good evening, I hope you will be enjoying yourselves tonight. There is plenty of delicious food and drinks for you. Now go and mingle" he said cheerfully and the crowd applauded once more. Verso got up from his seat and looked around the crowd when he saw Ophelia once more. She was talking to Monsieur Lefevre, or rather, it looked like they had a heated discussion about something. She stormed out of the room and the older man headed after her. Verso couldn't help but follow them outside, staying half hidden behind a statue when he could hear their voices
"I told you it is of the greatest importance, it's not like I have much of a choice" he said and she snorted "You did make a choice though. You chose your work and everything else over your own family" she said with a shaky voice and Verso could see that she was biting back tears. "Ophelia, you now that is not true" the older man said, Verso could hear sadness in his words "Is it not? Ever since maman is gone you have drowned yourself in work, as if to get away from everything as much as you possibly could. With Philippe gone to Graz I..you do not know how much it hurts, Papa" she said and Verso could feel his skin tingle. Papa. Monsieur Lefevre was her father. "Do you think I do not miss her every single day? That I do not feel guilty about leaving you and your brother alone so many times? That I feel no pain? Be assured that it is not easy for me either, child" the man said with a shaky voice, anger boiling beneath his skin. Ophelia fell silent for a moment and then took a deep breath "You have a strange way of showing that" she said quietly and the old man sighed "We will continue this conversation another time." Before she could respond anything he turned on his heel and returned to the hall. Verso could feel a pang in his chest at the sight of her. The urgent need to comfort her formed in his mind but he chose to stay hidden in his spot, not letting her know of his presence.
After a few more deep breaths Ophelia returned to the great hall.
Verso followed soon after, the invisible string once again pulling him towards her. "Ophelia" he said softly and when she turned around she shot him her usual smile, as if nothing had happened just moments before.
summary: Living in the shadow of a successful brother and a father that is more absent than present Ophelia never had it easy in life..
pairings: real!Verso x fem!OC
Basically just a chapter to introduce the OC
Enjoy :)
Her bow was gliding over the strings in swift and yet gentle motions, each strike eliciting sad notes echoing through the hall of her home. Her eyes closed and she let the music flow through her body like waves, waves that would carry her far away from reality. The pace quickened and she completely lost herself in the song. Tears started forming underneath her eyelids. Witch each strike yet another teardrop rolled down her cheek until the song was finished. Her breath was ragged, her hands shaky. She opened her eyes, blinking away the remaining tears.
"You really need to work on that pitch, child" the strict yet soft voice of an older man spoke "Papa, you are back home late" she said stiffly, straightening her posture and carefully put her violin back into its case. The violin had been a gift from her mother when she was all but five years old. With a sad smile she shut the case and turned around to face her father once more "It's been a long day at the conservatory. Lots of office work before we start the new classes tomorrow. There are quite a few promising candidates this year, surprising ones in fact" he said and she quirked a brow, curiousity sparked inside her "Oh?" "No matter, I'm having a council meeting this evening, I won't be home before late at night" he said and she could feel her heart drop. He noticed how her face fell "You know about the situation between the painters and the writers..this stupid feud needs to come to an end..I wish it was different too" he sighed. He carressed her cheek softly with the back of his hand "You look so much like your mother when you get lost in your music" he said with a sad smile but then cleared his throat, returning to his proud posture, ever the diplomat "I am going to see you at the conservatory tomorrow". And then he was gone.
"Mademoiselle Ophelia, would you like me to get you anything from the market?" the elderly maid, Agnes, asked her with a soft, wrinkly smile. She had been their maid since she was little. At the age of ten, when her mother had passed away from a long sickness, it was Agnes who took care of most of the girls' needs when her father was too busy with work again. She sighed..he was always working and when he was not she barely saw him anyways because he was either busy with managing the council meetings or meeting with other important people over dinner. Most times she was alone. Her older brother Philippe had moved to Graz a year ago to work at the grand opera house. Philippe had always been her father's favorite. A rising star in the music world, ever so talented and gifted he was everything that she seemingly was not. "Mademoiselle?" the voice of her maid shook her from her thoughts "No thank you Agnes, I don't need anything" she said with a soft smile and the elderly woman nodded with a friendly smile and left.
Ophelia went back to her room, passing her mother's study on the way. She hadn't entered the room since her mother's passing. She sighed heavily and continued her way. When she entered her own room she let herself flop down on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, the image of her mother flashing before her inner eye. She had been so devastatingly sick in the end. Her long, beautiful auburn locks just being thin strands framing her slim face, her green eyes glassy from the sickness "Don't let anyone ever tell you that you cannot do something. You can do anything that you dream of, ma petite" her soft voice rang in her ears and she opened her eyes. With a soft sigh she got up from the bed and sat in front of her dressing table, looking at her own reflection. She was the spitting image of her mother, the same long auburn locks of hair, green eyes that had a hint of blue in them when you took a closer look, her slim face and her petite figure. She started to brush her hair and then put it into a braid and changed into her night robe.
As she was laying in her bed she took a last deep breath before turning on her side. Tomorrow would be the first day of a new academic year "quite a few promising candidates this year, surprising ones in fact" she recalled the words of her father from earlier. Whatever that meant. She finally closed her eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
summary: for all his life Verso never lived the life he so desperately wished for, never fitting into the perfect puzzle of his painter family, but things are about to change when a letter arrives on a sunny spring morning..
pairings: real!Verso x fem!OC
So yeah, this is the start of a whole new fic I am cooking for you. Expect some drama, laughter and most of all: love.
Enjoy :)
It was a calm, soft and sunny spring morning. The Dessendre family was enjoying their breakfast in a peaceful silence when the door bell rang. "I'll get it" Clea, the oldest sister, announced with an eyeroll when no one made the effort to answer the door.
A moment later she returned to the table, holding an envelope in her hand.
"What is it?" Alicia, the youngest of the three siblings, asked curiously, eyeing the envelope with a twinkle in her eyes. "It's actually..for you" Clea said meaningfully, pointing the envelope towards her younger brother, Verso, who looked around the table nervously when everyone was looking at him with a questioning look.
He cleared his throat audably and took the envelope to open it carefully, all eyes on him while he was doing so. He started reading with an unreadable expression on his face "So? What is it about?" Aline, the mother of the family, asked with a hint of impatience. He handed her the letter wordlessly and she started reading it out loud "Dear Monsieur Dessendre, we are delighted to welcome you in our conservatory as a new student. Your apply has been by all means very inspirational and sparked our interest in you immediately and we look forward to see you in a month from now to start your piano studies. Sincerely, Artur Lefevre, Conservatory Director."
Everyone fell silent, a tension building in the air that was almost palpable. "You applied to the conservatory without our knowledge?" Aline asked and Verso could feel his mouth go dry "I..yes I did.." he said quietly, his gaze falling to his folded hands on his lap. "Why didn't you just tell us, son?" Renoir, the father, asked with a calm voice, yet the angered undertone noticable for everyone. Verso took a deep breath, steadying his posture to look into his father's eyes, gathering all the courage he could "Because I know that you would have tried to talk me out of it. Because you see no sense in my love for music. Because I was born in a family of painters and you would expect me to become no less or more than that. Because I..I finally want to start a life of my own and follow my dreams.." he said the last part very quietly. "And you thought we would not support you nontheless?" Aline spoke up, causing Verso to look into his mother's eyes. She was smiling at him, actually smiling.
Verso could feel confusion coming up inside of him "But I..you always said the study of music would be fruitless and that I am a painter and.." he stumbled over his own words. "I think it's wonderful!" Alicia exclaimed happily, causing Renoir to smile warmly at her. She was, without a doubt, his favorite. Aline cleared her throat "And how do you get there everyday? The conservatory is miles away from here" she said with a light twinkle in her eyes "I actually thought of that too already and there is in fact a small apartment above a boulangerie that is close by, I could move in anytime I want" Verso said quietly, half expecting his mother to disagree with his idea. She sighed "I see you are capable of taking matters into your own hand" she said with an almost sad looking smile and Alicia sobbed "So your are leaving us?" she asked with a tearful look and Verso smiled softly at her "Hey, it's not like I am gone forever and you can always come and visit me" he said and the red-haired girl beamed happily at him at that.
"So, in a month from now then?" Renoir asked calmly and Verso nodded "So be it then, if that is what you truly wish" he said and for a moment Verso thought he could see tears glistening in the older man's eyes.
They continued their breakfast and soon the three siblings started chattering excitedly about decorating Verso's apartment and if he wanted to take his piano with him "Of course I will, how else am I to keep up with the other students outside the lessons?" he said with a smirk, causing them to fall into a fit of giggles. Aline looked at Renoir with an unreadable expression and he took one of her hands in his "I know" he simply said and she smiled sadly at him.
In the evening Verso was sitting on his bed, gazing into the nightsky through one of his bedroom windows. He had expected more resistance from his parents, expected that they would deny him his wish as they had done so many times before. From a young age on he had been different from everyone else. Never really fitting into the picture of the perfect and highly respected family of painters. He sighed and closed his eyes, a light smile spreading over his face.
In a month from now, he thought, his life would finally change, he would finally start to follow his dreams and become what he so desperately wished to be for all his life.
Summary : As Verso and you were about to enjoy a quiet breakfast together, everything seemed to be going well. But would this moment of calm and tenderness last?
chapter VII
The table was almost laughably small, barely more than a square plank balanced on its legs, the kind one might find in the corner of a quiet café, built for two and nothing more. Knees brushed beneath without effort. Steam curled from the mugs between you, carrying the rich scent of chocolate, mingling with the faint aroma of butter and jam. It felt like the world had narrowed to that fragile space, to the soft scrape of cutlery against plates and the muted hum of a house still waking. For the sake of playfulness, or maybe just romance, a slice of toast was lifted from your plate, offered to him across the short distance. His lips parted without hesitation, teeth sinking into the golden crust, and laughter ghosted over the table, unspoken but alive in the sparkle of his eyes.
Attention lingered on the simple act of chewing, on the way his jaw moved slowly, rhythmically, as though savoring more than bread. Each swallow felt deliberate, a patience that seemed carved into him. Silence draped itself gently over the kitchen, filled only by the occasional clink of ceramic or the faint patter of rain still dripping from the gutters outside. Watching him finish that bite stirred a quiet warmth in your chest, and when the last movement of his throat stilled, the question escaped almost without thought, softer than the hush of the room, “Is it good?”
His gaze lingered for a moment before the corners of his mouth curved, playful and teasing, “It’s bread,” he answered lightly, almost deadpan, “Nothing extraordinary.”
A scandalized breath caught in your throat. You clutched a hand to your chest as though wounded, eyes widening in mock betrayal, “How dare you speak that way about my cooking?”
A laugh escaped him, low and easy, and he shook his head, “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was in the company of a master chef.” fingers curled around his cup, he took a sip of chocolate, savoring it before meeting your eyes again, this time with sincerity softening the smile, “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
The sincerity of it, his joy, his ease, melted something inside you. For a heartbeat, he looked untouched, free of shadows, his happiness so radiant that the danger clouding him seemed to vanish. The illusion was fragile, and yet you clung to it, desperate to push away thoughts of curses, of love spell, of anything that threatened the calm. For this morning, you chose to live in his peace, his laughter, his warmth.
Cup rose to your lips, a conspiratorial curve shaping your mouth as you said, “For a moment, I thought perhaps I should burn your food next time, or poison it even… but it seems you’re spared.” the words trailed into a hum of amusement as you drank, the rich taste of chocolate warming your tongue.
His gaze lingered on you, lips curved in that way that mixed playfulness with something softer, almost reverent, “Next time?” he repeated, letting the words stretch. A heartbeat passed before the rest followed, quieter, more deliberate, “Because you’ll cook for me again? I wouldn’t say no.”
The sip caught wrong, tumbling down your throat too fast, forcing a cough into the warm air. Heat flushed your cheeks as realization dawned, what had slipped from your lips carried more weight than intended. Cooking for him, for both of you, didn't bother you, if you forgot the fact that you had to learn how to cook first. The thought of it even pleased you, more than you wanted to admit. Yet beneath those words lived something deeper, something unspoken, because for such a thing to happen again, you would have to be here, in the same house, in the same life. The implication hung heavy, bold in its innocence, the dream of a shared home, of belonging to each other not in secret meetings or fleeting hours, but in the simple rhythm of days spent side by side.
Hands lingered around the cup, warmth seeping into your skin, before you lowered it slowly. Instead of setting it directly before you, the porcelain was nudged aside, placed at an angle, almost deliberately. A quiet act, as though even the faint veil of steam rising from the drink felt like too much distance between you and him.
Eyes softened as they rested on him, tracing the quiet curve of his smile, the ease in his posture. The thought slipped in uninvited, what it would be like to live with him. The vision painted itself with disarming clarity, mornings spent waking in his arms, nights falling asleep against his chest, afternoons filled with the faint music of piano keys. Walks down quiet streets, perhaps even with his two dogs at your side. The image drew your lips into a smile that deepened and grew without you meaning it to.
The more you allowed yourself to imagine, the more vivid it became. Happiness felt tangible, within reach, in the tilt of his grin and the luminous spark dancing in his eyes. Looking at him, you had no doubt he was lost in the same dream, that his thoughts mirrored your own in their longing and quiet wonder.
His voice broke the silence at last, gentle and unhurried, matching the tenderness of his expression, “Would you rather live in the heart of the city,” he asked softly, “or somewhere quieter, a little more distant?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks at the question. Perhaps it was nothing more than idle curiosity, but your heart clung to a different possibility, that beneath his words lay something more, a subtle way of asking what kind of place you might one day share with him.
Leaning forward, you let your elbows rest on the table, palms rising to cup your face. The question lingered heavy as you turned it over in your mind. City life had its charms, the closeness of shops, the nearness of family, the endless hum of activity. Yet the thought of the countryside pulled harder. A quiet home tucked away from the world, no neighbors to complain about late-night lights, a garden where flowers could bloom freely, or perhaps rows of vegetables and fruit trees, simple and sustaining. The peace of it, the stillness, felt like a dream.
The answer left your lips with calm certainty, “A small house in the countryside would be perfect.” you didn’t look away, not as your words settled in the air between you. Instead, the question found its way back across the table, fragile but sincere, “And you? What would you prefer?”
His gaze held yours without wavering. The quiet smile softened into something steadier, more absolute, “Any place suits me,” he said, voice rich with quiet conviction, “so long as it’s with you.”
Your heart stumbled into a quicker rhythm, each beat so strong it felt like it might spill out of your chest. The sensation mirrored the first stirrings of love all over again, as though you were falling for him anew. Fingers reached across the table of their own accord, brushing against his skin before settling against the line of his cheek. He leaned into the touch, then tilted his head just enough to press his lips against the center of your palm. The kiss lingered there, warm, reverent, sealing the unspoken dream with a tenderness that left your whole body trembling in its wake.
Breakfast unfolded in calm simplicity, conversation weaving itself from stray thoughts and fleeting subjects, the kind that rose only to vanish again, light as the steam that still curled faintly from the cups. Even after the food was gone, the table held them close, unwilling to break the spell of such ordinary sweetness.
At last you rose, gathering cups and plates into your arms, carrying them to the sink where water gleamed faintly in its basin. Cloth swept across the wooden surface, brushing away crumbs and faint stains of chocolate until the table was bare again. Behind you, a chair scraped quietly, his footsteps followed, light against the floorboards. He stopped at the counter, leaning back against it, arms braced lazily, watching as you turned your attention to the dishes.
A smile curved his lips, playful yet warm, “I really like your new hairstyle,” he murmured, voice low enough to be almost conspiratorial.
The words startled you. Brows arched as you froze, searching his expression for some hidden meaning. Confusion sent your gaze darting around until at last your hand reached for the nearest reflective surface, a polished tray meant for carrying biscuits. You held it to your face, only to find a wild tangle staring back at you, strands defiant in every direction.
Fingers combed through the unruly mess, an attempt both desperate and futile. Spinning back toward him, you narrowed your eyes though laughter tugged at your mouth, “You could have told me sooner,” you scolded, half exasperated, half amused.
“Why would I?” his voice was easy, disarming, as he pushed off the counter to close the distance. A soft kiss landed at the crown of your head before his fingers tousled your hair even further, deliberately mischievous, “I told you, it suits you.”
Water splashed lightly as the last of the dishes were rinsed and set aside. Towel brushed over your hands, drying them, when suddenly the world shifted. His hands caught you, turned you, guided you a step back until the edge of the counter pressed into your spine. His palms bracketed the wood on either side, boxing you in without force, only presence, his nearness a cage you welcomed.
“No one,” his voice dropped lower, steadier, “has ever looked as beautiful without trying as you do right now.” fingers traced inward, slipping gently around your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed to his. Eyes gleamed with an earnest light, every word steady, “I mean it. Every word.”
Arms slid upward around his shoulders, pulling him down, closing the gap inch by inch. Breath mingled, lips brushed once, again, before the kiss caught in full, sweet, lingering, with the faint taste of chocolate still shared between you. Depth followed quickly, lips parting, tongues meeting in unhurried hunger. Heat coiled in your chest, in the pit of your stomach, every thought lost in the rhythm of mouths pressing together. His taste, his breath, his warmth, all of it consumed you, so much that you never heard the front door creak open, nor the footsteps wandering through the hall. It wasn’t until shadows shifted at the edge of the kitchen, drawn by light or perhaps by scent, that the fragile cocoon you shared threatened to shatter.
Only when another voice cut through the air, a voice that was not his, did reality return with a violent jolt. Lips broke apart in haste, heads snapping toward the source, and the sight struck like thunder. Your parents stood in the doorway.
A chill ran the length of your spine, skin prickling as though doused in icy water. Heart lurched, beating so wildly it almost hurt, and the words stumbled from your lips, broken, trembling, “Maman? Papa? What… what are you doing here?”
Their silence weighed heavier than any shout might have. Verso’s eyes flicked to theirs, and for a heartbeat he seemed caught, hands still resting against your waist, yours looped around his neck. Realization dawned, and he pulled back with measured slowness, stepping to your side instead. The space between you widened only an inch, yet the loss felt sharper than it should. Both of you stood there, shoulders squared, exposed under the weight of a forbidden truth.
Still no answer, only the stunned stillness of two figures who had not expected this. Words pushed themselves from your throat, shaky, uncertain but insistent, “Why… why are you here? You weren’t supposed to return until the end of the week.”
It was your mother who finally broke the silence, her voice quiet but steady, “There was a problem. We had to come back earlier.” her gaze lingered, unreadable, before she arched a brow and folded her arms, “And you? What is all this?”
Not anger, not yet, only something masked, carefully hidden beneath their calm. The absence of fury unsettled more than raised voices might have. Your eyes darted toward Verso, a flicker of panic rising, but the thought of lying, of weaving some excuse, felt impossible. Breath drew shallow, but the confession came anyway, soft, halting, “We’ve… been seeing each other. For a little while.” the next words trembled out before you could stop them, almost defiant in their honesty, “And this morning, we became… something, more than friends.”
Shock lingered in the air after your confession, heavy and suffocating. Only your mother seemed capable of holding herself together, her expression still, calm in appearance, though whether it came from true composure or the desperate attempt not to lose control, you couldn’t tell. Your father, however, carried no such mask. His face betrayed everything, not only anger, but fear too. His eyes widened as though the worst of monsters had crossed the threshold of his home.
“Are you out of your mind?” his voice cut through the silence like glass shattering. One trembling hand pointed toward Verso, sharp, accusing, “He isn’t just a painter. He’s a Dessendre.”
Instinct propelled you forward, shifting into place before Verso as if your body could shield him from the weight of your father’s words. Protection might not be necessary, you knew they would never harm you, nor him, but you needed him to see, to feel, that you stood with him, “And?” The single word left your lips like defiance sharpened to a blade.
Surprise flickered in your father’s face, whether at your audacity to answer back or at your decision to defend someone he deemed an enemy, you couldn’t know. His jaw tightened, the words that followed bitter as iron, “Painters are dangerous. All of them.”
The dispute ignited like dry wood catching flame. Voices rose, sharp against the fragile morning calm. Accusations spilled between you and your father, words striking with growing force, each exchange louder than the last. No insults, never that, but every phrase struck with weight enough to bruise. Your mother tried to soothe, her hand reaching for his arm, her voice rising like a soft counterpoint. Verso, too, touched your arm gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in silent plea, asking you to breathe, to slow, but the storm inside you drowned them both.
Heat surged in your blood, each beat of your heart pumping fire through your veins. That endless rivalry between painters and writers, pointless, senseless, rose like a wall between you and the man who had raised you. Proof already existed in your hands, evidence that danger had never been confined to painters alone. Writers, too, had their shadows, their sins. The hypocrisy boiled until you could hardly see, “Writers are just as dangerous!”
Then, without warning, your father’s voice thundered over all others, raw and jagged, “And what could you possibly know of it, when you’re nothing but a failed writer yourself?”
The words struck harder than any blow could have. Silence swallowed the house whole, broken only by the echo of his voice as it ricocheted against walls, against bones. Your chest hollowed out, breath lost, as though the sentence itself had carved you open. Movement blurred, your mother rushing to him, her lips shaping words you could not hear. A low hum filled your ears instead, a ringing that drowned everything. Regret already clouded his face, his shoulders sinking, but it didn’t matter. The wound had been dealt.
Fingers tightened around Verso’s hand, stronger than you meant, clinging as though he were the only anchor in a storm. Without a word, you pulled him with you, through the hall, up the stairs, away from the voices and the hurt. Silence clung to your steps, every heartbeat echoing in your chest like a drum.
In your room, you seized a bag, not too big, not too small, but enough. Clothes filled it in hurried folds, daywear, nightwear, underthings, small necessities, the book you would never leave behind. The rhythm of packing steadied your hands even as the rest of you trembled.
From the corner of your eye, his shirt caught your gaze. You held it out to him without hesitation, the meaning in the gesture unspoken but clear. He met your eyes, reading your decision, and though he knew it wasn’t wise, knew perhaps that nothing good could come of running, he understood. And he would not try to stop you.
The woolen sweater came off his shoulders, folded neatly aside as he slipped into his shirt. All the while, you slid the sweater into your bag, a quiet, broken smile tugging at your lips, “You can wear it again later, if you’d like.” you murmured, as though tucking away not just fabric but the memory of a night that had been yours alone.
Silence wrapped itself tightly around him, his body still, his expression unreadable. No words rose to his lips, no clever remark or empty comfort, only the uncertainty of a boy who wasn’t sure if solace would soothe or sting. Instead, his hand found yours, fingers slipping between with a hesitance that vanished when you clutched back, harder than intended, holding on as though the gesture alone might steady you.
The weight of your bag pressed against your back, seams straining with hurriedly packed clothes and secrets. A door closed softly behind, careful not to echo through the house where raised voices had not yet dimmed. Shadows of arguments filtered even through the walls, your parents’ tones sharp and muffled, rising and falling in an endless clash. Each step away from the threshold tightened something in your chest, yet you did not look back. Cobblestones replaced the safety of the floor you’d always known, the faint chill of the morning biting against your skin as the house fell behind you.
Pavement stretched endlessly, boots striking a rhythm quick and relentless. He followed without protest, his presence close, steady, a shadow moving at your side. Not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged, the city around you blurring into little more than stone and distant echoes. Only when the heavy outlines of the central district appeared did he halt abruptly, forcing you to stop as well, the suddenness breaking the fragile trance of your pace.
Turning to him revealed no storm, no fire, just the emptiness of a gaze stripped of expression. His hands released yours only to cradle your face, gentle in their firmness, as though he feared that too much pressure might cause you to shatter. Thumbs traced patient circles across dampening skin, grounding you with each motion, his eyes never straying from yours.
At last, his voice surfaced, quiet yet unshakable, carrying words that seeped straight through the ache, “It’s all right. I’m here.”
The sound cut through you like the strike of a match in a darkened room, a single spark igniting where only stillness had been. Moisture gathered at your lashes, unsteady, and lips trembled as the tide you had kept contained broke free. Every restraint faltered, the emotions you had locked away tumbled forward, raw and unrelenting.
His arms opened and pulled you into them, holding close, one hand firm at the back of your head, the other steady against your spine. Against his chest, grief was given space at last. Tears bled quietly into fabric, shoulders shaking, breaths uneven. He did not ask you to stop, did not hurry the storm, only anchored you, letting time bend to the rhythm of your sobs. Fingers combed gently through your hair, voice weaving fragments of comfort into the space between heartbeats. Soft words, low promises, the kind that blurred at the edges but still carried enough warmth to wrap around you like a blanket.
When at last your steps retreated from him, only a pace away, palms rose to wipe the remnants of salt from your cheeks. Eyes red, lids heavy, you lifted your head with a fragile steadiness, “I feel better, thanks you… Let's keep walking.”
A raised brow answered you, followed by the simple question that uncoiled in the air, “And where exactly do you want to go?”
Realization crashed into you, sudden and sharp. In your flight, no destination had taken shape; the path had been an escape, not a journey. Fingers fumbled into your pocket, drawing out the small coin purse. Enough for an inn, perhaps, a few nights tucked away somewhere anonymous, “Well... I know there are a few cheap inns here.”
His sigh carried a weight that was not reproach, only weary affection, “Put it away.” he murmured, hand reaching once more to reclaim yours with quiet certainty.
Obedience came without thought, the purse disappeared back into fabric as you let yourself be guided. Steps fell into his, matching his pace as the question repeated on your tongue, where was he taking you? Yet every time, silence was his only answer, a faint tug at your hand the only reply.
Streets unfurled until at last he stopped, the edge of a wide boulevard beneath your shoes. The sound reached you before the sight, hoofbeats striking stone in a rhythm that carried both weight and music, the jangle of harnesses chiming faintly with each step. Iron rims crunched against the cobblestones as the carriage drew to a halt, the faint snort of the horse clouding in the cool air. The world seemed momentarily reduced to that symphony of leather, wood, and breath, the lingering scent of damp pavement mixing with hay and sweat.
From the seat above, a voice carried down, gravelly yet not unkind, laced with the accent of a man long accustomed to the streets, “Where to, monsieur, mademoiselle?” the driver’s cap shadowed part of his face, but his beard was thick, peppered with grey, and his eyes, though tired, glimmered with something attentive, steady, as he adjusted the reins in his weathered hands.
A polite nod passed from your companion to the driver before words followed, simple yet striking with weight, “To the Dessendre manor.”
Your head snapped toward him, disbelief flashing hot in your chest. The manor? His home? Happiness and anxiety wrestled inside you at once. The thought of finally seeing where he lived made your chest flutter, yet a knot formed in your stomach at the idea of intruding, of stepping into a space that belonged to his family, not just to him.
The driver shifted on his seat, pulling gently on the reins to steady the horse. His voice carried down to you, rough but not unkind, “It’s not exactly around the corner,” he said, “On foot, you’d be looking at half an hour, maybe closer to an hour. For the carriage, two passengers… it will cost this much.” he named the fare without hesitation, as though he’d spoken the same words a hundred times before.
The number landed heavy in your ears. It wasn’t unreasonable, not really, but still far from small. A frown tugged at your lips, and before you could stop yourself, the protest was out, “Verso, it’s too much. I can’t let you pay for that.”
His head turned sharply, blue eyes catching yours in. Calm, certain, he answered without hesitation, “It’s nothing.”
The driver stepped down from his seat with practiced ease, boots landing on the cobblestone with a muted thud. A hand tugged the brim of his hat as he opened the small door, his voice low but firm, “Payment once we arrive, monsieur.”
A gentle pressure at the small of your back urged you forward. Verso’s hand lingered there, warm and steady, guiding without words. Hesitation pulled at you for a second, nerves fluttering in your chest, before your foot found the step. The inside smelled faintly of leather and wood polish, worn but clean, a space made for travelers and fleeting moments. You slid onto the seat, back straight at first, eyes darting over the interior as if cataloguing every detail. Verso followed right after, settling close beside you, his presence filling the narrow space.
The driver shut the door with a solid click, the sound echoing inside the carriage. A moment later, leather reins snapped, hooves struck stone, and the world shifted forward. The wheels rumbled in rhythm, steady and unbroken, while the clop of horses marked time like a heartbeat against the morning air. Through the small window, buildings slid past in slow procession, iron balconies, shopfronts just waking, the faint blur of figures starting their day. Paris stretched outward, alive yet muffled by the carriage walls.
A shift in weight brushed against you, Verso’s arm moving behind your back, drawing you closer in one simple motion. No hesitation, no question. Settling sideways onto his lap, not facing him, you tucked yourself against his chest. Leaning into him felt as natural as breathing. His chest rose and fell under your cheek, a steady rhythm that grounded you, while his warmth pressed through the thin layers of fabric. The hum of the city, the jostle of the carriage, all faded when you curled against him, finding his shoulder as your pillow.
The remnants of tears left your eyes heavy, the dull ache of a headache tugging you toward stillness. Breathing evened out, slow and soft, until each inhale matched the cadence of his heart beneath your ear. It beat steady, strong, almost lulling. Little by little, the noise of hooves and wheels blurred, the shifting light behind the glass dimmed, and your body surrendered. Sleep found you gently, folded into his arms, your pulse echoing the quiet strength of his.
The jolt came suddenly, wheels clattering over uneven stones, rougher ground shaking the carriage enough to pull you from sleep. Eyelids fluttered open, vision blurred for a few heartbeats before the world steadied. A hoarse, drowsy voice slipped out, heavy with fatigue, “Are we there yet?”
The sight that greeted him was enough to pull a quiet, crooked smile to his lips, hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded, a faint trail of drool glistening at the corner of your mouth. With nothing else at hand, his sleeve brushed gently against your lips, wiping it away as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, “Not yet,” he murmured, amused, “We’ve made it past halfway.”
Limbs stretched languidly, your body shifting just enough to ease the stiffness before settling back down more comfortably. Head found his shoulder again, nestling there like it belonged.
Quiet filled the space, broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the creak of wheels. After a pause, his voice threaded through the hush, soft but deliberate, “Do you want to talk?”
A tilt of your chin brought your gaze up to him, puzzled, searching, “Talk about what?”
He hesitated, head tilting until his cheek rested lightly against the crown of your hair. Careful with his words, he let them fall gently, “About what happened at your house.” no mention of shouting, or accusations, only the weight of what lingered.
A laugh escaped, bitter, hollow, stripped of joy. The memory of slammed words and broken calm burned fresh enough to sting, “I don’t know. There’s not much to say.” silence threatened, then a hard swallow, “I don’t know what hurts more… that he’s right, or that for years he made me believe something would come of me, while secretly thinking I was a failure all along.”
The way you said it, the way doubt clung to your voice, cut into him sharper than anything your father had thrown. His hand tightened against yours, steady, his voice quiet but sure, “You’re everything but a failure. That poem you wrote for the writers’ day,” his eyes softened, “It was beautiful.”
Even with a smile tugging faintly at your lips, the weight behind it betrayed you, empty of true ease, “It’s the only poem I’ve ever written,” you admitted, gaze drifting away from his. A beat passed before your voice faltered, correcting yourself, “No… the first. I wrote others too. During... During that time when you had ignored me….”
Eyes flicked back to his, regret blooming instantly as the weight of your words sank in. They had come out sharper, more accusing than you had meant, and the sting of it gnawed at you. Voice rushed forward, tripping over itself, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was hurt, but now I know you never ignored me on purpose. You weren’t yourself. I don’t blame you...”
Words spilled faster than usual, urgency tightening each syllable. Fear pressed into your chest at the thought of wounding him, of staining a day already heavy with cracks. Silence from his side only deepened the panic, heart quickening, mind racing through what-ifs, wondering if you had just made everything worse.
Instead of answering, his movement caught you off guard. He shifted across the seat, hand brushing against the door before drawing the curtain over the narrow window, dimming the world outside. A pause, then the same gesture mirrored on the opposite side. Shadows wrapped the carriage in a muted hush, soft light still slipping through the fabric, enough to see but not enough to invite the gaze of anyone.
When he returned, it was with a steadiness that rooted you. His hand guided you closer, coaxing you into his lap, straddling his thigh without thought, palms resting instinctively on the warmth of his chest. Arms looped around your waist, firm and protective, holding you close as though nothing could pry you from him. His eyes met yours, unwavering, and his voice, low and resolute, cut through the quiet, “I won’t ever leave you again. That’s a promise.”
Fingers trailed upward, sliding from his chest to cradle his face, thumbs brushing against his skin as though memorizing him. Forehead lowered slowly, your breath mingling with his until lips met, tentative at first, testing, before his answered with unhesitating devotion. Kiss after kiss, soft collisions turning into something inevitable, until neither of you could pull away. It felt like this was all you had done since the night before, trading breaths and warmth, living only in the space where your lips met. Perhaps it was true. Yet nothing else mattered now, only his arms anchoring you, only the press of his mouth moving with yours. All that had fractured this morning melted in the fire of his closeness. The need was not only for escape, but for love, real, tangible, alive in the way he held you.
Nothing rushed. Each touch, each kiss lingered, unhurried, as if time had softened enough to allow you both to breathe again. No storm outside the carriage, no sting of cruel words, only a quiet reprieve. In the dim light, tenderness reigned, his caress steady on your back, your lips fitting together like they had always belonged. A fragile pause in the whirlwind, yet one you clung to with everything in you.
The kiss broke at last, and in its place came a smile, thin, unpolished, but true. The kind of smile that seemed to say that with him at your side, there was nothing you could not face, no storm that could not be weathered.
Curiosity tugged almost immediately, the question slipping free before restraint could catch it, “Tell me, what does the interior of the manor look like?” the manor you had only glimpsed from a distance, its silhouette against the sky, but never stepped inside.
Fingers brushed your cheek, a gentle pinch meant more in affection than teasing, “And deny myself your reaction when I show you?” he said, grin tilting just enough to be playful, “Not a chance.”
A pout shaped your lips, deliberate and exaggerated, though it only earned a laugh from him, warm, unguarded, the kind that broke whatever weight still lingered in the air. It pulled your own laughter free, lightening the space between you until tension felt like nothing but a memory.
But his curiosity returned, steady beneath the ease, “Why don’t you ever write? Or so little?”
Shoulders rose faintly as if even your own body didn’t hold the answer, “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quiet, “Words come only when it’s… confession. And the only times I’ve ever truly managed to write, It was when I felt at my lowest point.”
Arms around you tightened a fraction, his palm tracing the length of your back, steady and soothing. Breath caught briefly before you added, “So what’s the point of writing if inspiration only finds me when I’m standing at the edge of a cliff?”
Silence stretched, thoughtful rather than dismissive. He weighed his words carefully, and when they came, they were slow, deliberate, “Maybe you’re simply… not meant for it?”
Eyes lifted sharply to his, ready for the sting such a phrase should carry. From anyone else, it would have. But from him, it sounded different, not cruel, not mocking, but almost gentle, like he was trying to free you from a weight you hadn’t realized you carried. The reply left you softer, “Maybe. But… I’ve never tried to look for something else. Never tried to see if there’s another hidden skill, another hobby waiting somewhere. Some way to fill the empty spaces.”
The carriage slowed, wheels creaking as the horse’s pace fell steady to a halt. One of his arms slipped away to tug the curtain aside, revealing the world beyond. A faint smile crossed his lips, “We can talk about that later. We’ve arrived.”
Eyes followed his, excitement and anxiety colliding in your chest. The manor loomed tall and dignified, but it wasn’t the building that made your breath hitch, it was the sight of the figures waiting just in front. Renoir, Aline, Cléa, Alicia. Brows arched sharply, you turned to him, voice low but incredulous, “Why is everyone waiting for us?”
He blinked, leaned closer to the window, and groaned, hand pressed to his forehead, “Merde…” the mutter was half under his breath, but enough for you to catch. Clearly, this welcome committee hadn’t been planned.
The carriage rolled to its final stop before the great doors, and the driver climbed down, boots crunching against the gravel. The door swung open with a bow, “We’ve arrived,” he announced politely.
Verso stepped out first, hand extended back toward you. Fingers closed around his as you rose, pulling your bag onto your shoulder before letting him help you down. Her steps were hesitant, almost shy, as though each movement toward the manor carried invisible weight. He paid the driver, who tipped his cap, “Thank you. Good day to you both.” with that, the man climbed back to his seat, reins snapping as horse and carriage moved away down the path.
Your hand was claimed again, warm and steady, guiding you forward. Before the manor’s steps could even be reached, Aline swept toward her son, her hands cupping his face as though she had been waiting days for this. A smile lit her features at once, “Mon petit ange… you look better. You’ve got color again. I can finally breathe.”
She lingered a little behind him, nerves bubbling under her skin, shoulders curling ever so slightly as if she feared being in the way. He endured the embrace with faint embarrassment, only to redden further when she released him and turned to you, arms wrapping around you with motherly affection. The sudden closeness made your breath catch; timidity tightened your chest, but you allowed yourself to melt into the hug, uncertain yet grateful, “Thank you for taking care of my little one.”
The nickname made his cheeks darken further, his expression twisting into quiet protest. You caught the flicker of his discomfort and bit back a smile, though your own cheeks heated as well, uncertain if you truly belonged in this exchange of family tenderness. Aline only carried on with grace, moving toward the manor with steps full of lightness, elegance unshaken. The first time you had seen her, she had been calm, reserved, almost distant, now she radiated warmth, life itself. Perhaps the change was simple, the relief of seeing her son alive and whole again.
At the top of the steps, greetings came in chorus. Each voice welcomed you, words warm, faces kind, and for the first time since the morning, your chest loosened a little. Still, you kept your gaze lowered at first, afraid of meeting their eyes too directly, anxious at the thought they might secretly disapprove.
Cléa, however, was the first to break into mischief. Her eyes flicked to the bag on your back, her grin immediate, “Well, well… so it went that well, hm? Moving in already?”
The words landed like cold water, reality crashing into your chest. You were staying here, yes, but only for a while. Days, perhaps. Weeks, at most. You couldn’t stay forever. But you wouldn’t go home either. The thought tangled inside your ribs until Verso cut in, sharp enough to end it.
“Cléa.” his eyes narrowed, “Not the time.”
Alicia, ever the more perceptive, looked between you both, her voice quiet but edged with concern, “Did something happen?”
He inhaled, ready to answer, but your hand lifted, silencing him. His head tilted, curiosity flickering in his gaze as if to ask, are you sure? You nodded, though your pulse raced, your words threatening to stumble under the eyes watching you. Still, you forced them out before hesitation could strangle them.
“I had a fight with my parents,” you confessed, voice steady but low, “And I left. But don't worry, I won’t stay long. Just a few days, a week or two maybe...”
Renoir was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, his presence calm but firm, and laid a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “You may stay as long as you need,” he said gently, “Consider it our way of thanking you for helping our family.”
The gesture almost made your knees weak, relief pricking behind your eyes. Still, you dipped your head slightly, timid in your gratitude, unused to such open acceptance. Eyes shifted from him toward Alicia and Cléa, standing a few steps behind their parents. Cléa spoke next, voice steady, “We told them everything. The library. The scrolls. The love spell. The brooch.”
It was true, they had said they would tell their parents. But so soon? The thought struck you with unexpected weight. If anything, it showed just how deeply they valued family, how important it was for them to keep nothing hidden.
Turning back toward Renoir, you found his gaze steady and kind. A small smile returned to your lips, and you whispered, “Thank you.”
Together, the group finally crossed the threshold into the manor, Verso’s hand brushing against yours as if to steady you. The interior opened wide before your eyes, high ceilings painted in soft cream, walls dressed in black, tall windows filtering daylight across gleaming marble floor. Golden accents glimmered on frames and sconces, and heavy velvet curtains gave the space an air of dignity and wealth without feeling cold. Everything was grand, immense, even, for a family so small. Curiosity tugged your gaze in every direction, admiration rising with each step, though your hands fidgeted nervously at the hem of your sleeve, unsure of where to place yourself in such grandeur.
Before Verso could draw near again, Aline slipped in first, looping her arm neatly under yours. Her eyes met yours with a gentle spark, “Would you mind if I spoke with you for a little while? And show you around at the same time.”
The sudden intimacy startled you, timidity making your voice falter as you nodded quickly, too polite to refuse. Verso immediately protested, his face twisting into something almost boyish, like a child who’d just had his sweets taken away, “But I wanted to show her the manor.”
His mother’s smile softened, though mischief lingered in her tone, “You’ll have the gardens. Far more romantic, don’t you think?” her fingers pinched lightly at his cheek before she added with playful affection, “Don’t you want to let your old mother get to know your lover?”
Both you and Verso flushed crimson, cheeks betraying everything words could not. Your hands twisted together in front of you, eyes darting away in shy panic. There was no hiding it, not from a couple who had lived through the very thing you were only just discovering. Not from his parents, who knew him too well. And even if you had tried, love burned too brightly between you, impossible to disguise. Everyone seemed to know, everyone except Alicia, whose wide-eyed face carried shock, then quickly blossomed into happiness.
She stepped closer with a little bounce in her step, unable to contain her excitement, “Since when?” she asked, voice eager, almost breathless.
Verso took a quiet breath, shoulders straightening as he found the courage to speak. His gaze moved from Alicia to the others, “Since this morning,” he said, steady but warm, “Officially, we’re together since then.”
Alicia’s joy was contagious. Her smile beamed, soft and radiant, as if she were sharing the happiness directly with you. Renoir slipped closer to his wife, gently wrapping his arms around her to coax her into letting go of you. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he murmured, “Let them settle for a while. They should put their things down, breathe a little. We can speak of important matters later.”
Aline paused, thoughtful, before releasing a small sigh, though her smile lingered, “All right,” she agreed, giving in almost too easily. But as her eyes slid back toward you and Verso, her expression sharpened, soft yet vaguely menacing, “I’ll see you later,” she added, words laced with playful warning.
The couple slipped away down a long corridor, vanishing toward the gardens beyond the distant door. Left behind, you stood with Verso, Alicia, and Cléa.
Never one to miss her chance, Cléa crossed her arms and tilted her head, a brow raised in sharp amusement, “So, one night with them,” she teased, eyes darting toward you with a grin, “and you’ve already bounced back? Looks like we don’t need to dig around for a cure after all.”
Alicia’s eyes shimmered even brighter, her expression softening into something dreamy, “Ah… saved by true love.” she sighed, clasping her hands together as if she were watching a scene from a novel, “So romantic!”
Verso looked as though he wished the ground might open and swallow him whole. Shifting uneasily, he muttered, “We’ll… go. I’ll show them around the manor.”
“Can I come? Please? Can I?” Alicia chirped instantly, bouncing on her feet. She repeated the question once, twice, three times, each one more insistent than the last.
A heavy sigh slipped from Verso as he lifted a hand in defeat, “Fine. But when we reach my room, you both leave us alone.”
Cléa, naturally, couldn’t resist. A sly grin tugged at her lips as she leaned in, “Your room, huh?”
The smack he gave her shoulder was light, playful, enough to earn a little laugh but not a protest, “For them to put their things down.” he corrected quickly, cheeks burning crimson.
Hand finding yours, he tugged you along before anyone could tease further, and the tour began. The manor was vast, almost overwhelming, every room immense, ceilings stretching so high they seemed to swallow sound. The palette of black and gold gave everything a strange duality, dark yet radiant, shadowed yet gleaming with reflected light. Paintings adorned the walls, each frame heavy, ornate. Some looked like family pieces, others like works from unknown artists. And as you walked, Verso’s voice filled the halls with small anecdotes, this was where he once tripped and hurt his head as a child, that corner still held the handmade decorations for Mother’s Day, crafted clumsily but kept all the same. The house was alive, steeped in memory, every corner humming with the weight of their shared history.
At last, the small group stopped before a tall door. Cléa leaned close with a conspiratorial wink, “Good luck putting up with him for the next few days.”
Alicia waved cheerfully, her goodbye light and bright as she followed her older sister down the hall. Left in sudden quiet, Verso rolled his eyes with a helpless smile before opening the door. The moment it swung wide, two shapes barreled toward him, nails clicking on the floor, Monoco and Noco, his loyal companions, throwing themselves against his legs in a storm of wagging tails and demands for affection.
The sight of him kneeling on the floor softened something inside you. His hands moved with familiarity, scratching gently behind eager ears, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant only for them. The dogs leaned into his touch, tails wagging so fast they blurred, joy radiating from every twitch of fur. The tenderness in the way he greeted them tugged at your chest, a piece of him revealed in those small, unguarded gestures. You had wanted to meet them ever since he first mentioned them, Monoco, and Noco, both restless and full of energy. And here they were, real and alive, their affection for him undeniable.
Verso finally straightened, brushing fur from his clothes, and stepped aside, making space for you. He reached for your bag before you could stop him, slinging it easily from your shoulder and carrying it toward the wardrobe without a word, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to take that weight from you. Left to yourself, you turned slowly, letting your eyes wander through his room, drinking in the details. It was simpler than you expected neat, organized, without much in the way of decoration. And yet, there was warmth here, a quiet kind of intimacy. What caught your eye most wasn’t the furniture, but the low table near the window, where delicate rails had been laid out. A small model train rested there, its painted body worn with use. That little touch of childhood sat in stark contrast to the rest of the room, like a piece of innocence frozen in time.
A rustle of movement broke your reverie. You turned, startled, to find the two dogs padding toward you, curiosity gleaming in their dark eyes. For a moment you hesitated, unsure if they would accept you, but then you stretched out a cautious hand. They sniffed delicately at your fingers before pressing their heads closer, encouraging your touch. Relief bloomed in your chest as you ran your hand down their backs, fingers threading through soft fur. First Monoco, calm, leaning gently against your palm, then Noco, impatient for attention, nudging your arm with his nose until you laughed and gave him his share. The floorboards pressed cool against your knees as you crouched down, surrounding yourself with the warmth of them both, showering them with affection as if you had known them for years.
The sound of steps behind you drew your gaze upward. Verso stood there, watching, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement, “If I had known,” he teased, voice carrying a mock gravity, “that I’d have competition by bringing you here…”
You tilted your head back fully now, breaking into a broad grin, shyness giving way to ease. The dogs stayed pressed against your side, but you rose anyway, slow and unhurried, until you stood close enough to reach for him. Your arms slipped around his frame in a natural, easy motion, as though drawn by instinct alone. Head against his chest, the weight of the day eased, and words hovered at the edge of your tongue, something soft you meant to confess, but the sound of a door slamming open cut you off.
The doorway filled with Cléa’s figure, “Stop cuddling and come on!” she announced loudly, her voice carrying across the room before either of you could react, “Lunch is ready!”
Verso groaned, face dropping into his hands. Before he could form a reply, Cléa spun on her heel and darted down the corridor, her laughter trailing behind like ribbons. The door remained flung open, her footsteps echoing in retreat. With a muttered curse under his breath, Verso lunged after her, his voice raised in protest, calling down the corridor, “Ever heard of knocking first?”
Left behind, you stood motionless for a few moments, the warmth of his embrace still clinging to you, the interruption lingering like an unfinished note. Monoco and Noco nudged against your legs, their presence grounding, loyal and steady. At last you sighed, stepping from the quiet of his room into the corridor, the dogs following at your heels as though they had already decided you belonged to them as much as he did. The contrast struck you at once. In your own home, silence had always ruled,heavy, oppressive, every corner echoing with absence. Meals were often alone, your parents too consumed by work to fill the house with voices. Here, though, everything was alive. The manor breathed with laughter and arguments, footsteps and greetings, a family bound not just by blood but by choice, by love. It was noisy, yes, but the kind of noise that brought warmth instead of loneliness.
As you trailed after the others, the realization grew clearer, this place was not just walls and ceilings, not just luxury. It was life, vivid and overflowing. For the first time, you could imagine yourself not merely as a guest but as someone who fit here, woven into their moments, welcomed into their stories.
Walking through the corridor, your heart beat steadier. Each step felt like a promise, fragile but real. The nervous shyness that had weighed on you since stepping from the carriage loosened its grip, fading bit by bit with every smile, every kind glance. You weren’t only closer to Verso now, though he remained at the center of it all, drawing you like gravity. You were closer to something larger, brighter, a world of color, of possibility, where shadows could be softened and wounds could heal. And deep within, a quiet certainty unfurled. With him, yes, you would find your voice. But even without him, someday, you would stand tall, whole in your own right. The thought lingered like sunlight through glass, you were not lost anymore. You were beginning to find yourself. And here, within these walls, timid no longer, you felt the first stirrings of truly belonging.
Summary : After weeks of being ignored, of seeing the man who made your heart beat in someone else's arms… Verso appeared where you least expected him: on your doorstep. After an exchange filled with pain and tenderness, Verso captured your lips for a fiery kiss, then a softer one. How far will your relationship go?
Author's note : Who cooked spicy food here? … I did! Lot of fluff, some spice but soft spice, nothing too explicit.
CW : Lots of hickeys, they're half naked so…. MDNI for this one ^ - ^
chapter VI
The rain had sung all night, tireless, never yielding a single second to silence. Drops crashed against the slanted panes with the regularity of a deep drum, rolling down the glass before vanishing into the shadow of the roof. Even behind the rampart of closed windows, the strength of the downpour was palpable, a constant presence that wrapped the room in a veil of sound. There was no telling how many hours the sky had been pouring like this, it seemed as though dawn, night, and day had merged into one endless grey canvas, embroidered with water.
Your eyelids lifted slowly, as if each flutter of your lashes had to sweep away a little more of the fog clouding your gaze. The contours of the room emerged in a diffuse clarity, veiled by humidity and the hesitant light filtering through the glass. Lying on your back, the most immediate sensation was that unfamiliar, warm, reassuring weight curled against you. His head rested on your chest, just above your heart, and with every beat, it seemed he timed his breathing to yours. His body was nestled against yours, one of your arms forming a protective arc around his shoulders.
He was asleep. And everything in his posture, in the unguarded lines of his features, told you this was the deepest sleep he’d had in days. The shadows carved under his eyes seemed lighter, as if the night had finally stopped pressing down on him. He was wearing your wool sweater, the one you’d grabbed in haste last night after the rain had soaked you both to the bone. The oversized knit draped over his shoulders like an improvised cocoon, and a quiet intuition told you he must have found more than warmth in it, your scent woven into the fibres, soothing, a faint perfume that perhaps had chased his nightmares away for one night.
The temptation to stay perfectly still, suspended in this fragile bubble, mingled with an even gentler urge. With care, almost holding your breath, you shifted closer to him. Your hand found the small of his back, sliding slowly from the top of his shoulder blades to the curve of his waist, in a gesture meant as much to reassure as to be reassured. The contact, warm and alive, chased away the last shred of doubt: last night had not been a dream. That lost look in the rain, that face etched with exhaustion and despair, that embrace like a shipwrecked man clinging to his final piece of driftwood… it had all been real.
Images returned with almost painful precision. The rain pounding in rhythm around you, his arms closing with a force almost brutal, as if he feared a stray gust of wind or a misplaced heartbeat might tear you from him. His fingers clenched in the fabric, his body trembling, not from cold, but from the kind of unspoken distress that has no name. This time, he had not been the protective shadow he was on the carousel, nor the steady, solid presence beneath the willow. This time, he had sought refuge. He had needed your arms to stay standing.
And then, the kiss. Even the memory was enough to send warmth rising into your cheeks. The sensation still lingered, vivid and intact, his lips on yours, possessive, urgent, almost desperate, as though every second stolen for that kiss mattered more than anything. His breath short, mingling with yours, his warmth a stark contrast to the icy downpour. It had felt as if everything, absolutely everything, had been condensed into that contact, into the collision of two needs left unsaid for too long.
Your fingers lifted on their own to your lips, tracing their outline with the lightness of a secret too precious to break. Each motion seemed to carve the memory deeper, fixing it into place like a luminous scar no time or distance could erase.
Your gaze drifted to the window just above the bed. The slanted panes opened onto a sky without depth, a uniform grey streaked with the rivulets the rain sculpted into quicksilver threads. The downpour blurred all sense of time, dawn could have been born or died there without you knowing. Diffuse light bathed the room in a watercolor hush, pale and silent despite the constant drumming against the glass. The wooden walls, polished by years, reflected that soft glow as though the entire room were holding its breath so as not to disturb the sleeper beside you.
Your eyes returned to him, drawn back as if by gravity, a vision both familiar and endlessly new. Relaxed features, chest rising in an even rhythm, two fleece blankets slipping to cover only half his body. The faintest shadow of a tender smile touched your lips. With care, your fingers caught the edge of the blankets, pulling them back up over his shoulders to wrap him once more. A simple gesture, almost ordinary, but one that held everything, love, protection, the silent certainty that as long as he slept here, he would be safe.
A subtle movement caught your attention. His breathing grew deeper, his lashes fluttering against the fabric of your top. He tightened his embrace almost imperceptibly, as if his body refused to let you go. His fingers, resting at your side, traced an absent, almost unconscious motion. When his eyes opened, still veiled with sleep, they found yours instantly. A mix of relief and tenderness passed through them, fleeting, but undeniable.
No words disturbed the silence. The steady drumming of rain against the glass formed a cocoon of sound, sealing the room away from the rest of the world. The grey light reflected off the time-worn wooden walls, casting your faces in a soft glow. Time itself seemed suspended, unsure whether to move forward into the day or slip back into the night.
He lowered his head again, this time deliberately resting it on your chest, as if letting himself be lulled by the beating of your heart. Your fingers slid into his hair, stroking it slowly, untangling a few strands. A tender, almost hypnotic gesture that erased every shadow from his features.
When he lifted his face again, your eyes met, so close you could see every detail in those beautiful eyes. They were searching for something, a certainty, an answer to an unspoken question. There was no need to speak, he read what he sought before you could even open your mouth.
His fingers brushed along your cheek, and his lips found yours. The kiss had none of the urgency of the night before. It was soft, patient, almost solemn, a kiss that gave more than it asked, like the silent promise that, despite the storm, you would be there for each other.
The kiss unfolded with an ease that felt almost impossible for something so new. There was no hesitation, no awkward search for rhythm, only the unshakable sense that your lips had always known the shape of his, as though this connection had existed long before last night. His warmth bled into you, slow and steady, each breath mingling with yours in a quiet exchange that could have lasted forever. The world beyond the rain-fogged windows felt irrelevant, as though the storm itself had bent to give you this fragile moment untouched.
Yet somewhere beneath the softness, a thread of unease wound itself tighter in your chest. He looked better, colour had returned to his face, and his touch no longer carried that bone-deep desperation of the night before, but the truth remained. The culprit was still free. The curse, or whatever bound him in this invisible grip, still held. You had no key, no plan, not even a clear idea of whether this was something to be broken by action or something that would fade on its own. And if it was the first… you had nothing to act with. Empty hands in the face of a problem far too large.
Your fingers lifted, framing his face, gently coaxing him to pull back. The kiss broke reluctantly, his breath still brushing over your lips as if trying to hold the connection by sheer will. A small, low sound escaped him, not quite a protest, not quite a plea, something in between. A whine, soft and unexpected. The sound lodged itself deep in your chest, sending a shiver down your spine. Not fear. Not discomfort. Something far more dangerous in its intimacy.
You studied him quietly, taking in every detail now that there was space to see. His expression was calmer, his breathing even, though the shadows under his eyes still lingered. No one could undo days, maybe a week of fractured sleep in a single night, and the faint lines of fatigue remained as proof. Still, compared to yesterday, he looked… lighter.
“How do you feel?” you asked softly, “Do you… feel any better? Or still… strange?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes wandered, unfocused for a moment, like he was searching inside himself. Then, slowly, his cheek pressed into your palm. He turned his head just enough to brush a kiss against it, his lips warm against your skin.
“I’m still lost,” he admitted, his voice low but steady, “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. But with you…” his gaze finally met yours, and something unguarded flickered there, “With you, it’s… magic. I feel better than I have in… I don’t even know how long.”
Your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. Before you could respond, he dipped his head, resting his forehead against the curve of your neck before nestling in deeper. The warmth of his breath spread against your skin.
“I haven’t slept like that since…” he hesitated, his fingers absently curling into the fabric at your waist, “Since everything started going wrong.”
Your arms tightened around him instinctively, a silent answer to his confession. Outside, the rain kept drumming against the glass, a constant rhythm that wrapped around the both of you like a shield from the rest of the world.
A wide smile curled against parted lips, warmth blooming in your chest at the thought that if he felt better, it was partly because of you, because of your presence, your touch, your warmth. The thought drifted in, uninvited yet welcome, those fairytales where the prince wakes the princess from her endless sleep with a single kiss. A part of you ached to be that answer for him, to hold him, kiss him, and chase away every shadow until colour rushed back into his world in a single breath, like something out of an overly perfect romance. Cheesy, unrealistic… maybe. But dreaming cost nothing, and teasing him was far too tempting to resist.
With a playful shift, his balance gave way under your hands, and he fell onto his back with a muffled sound of surprise. The motion carried you with it, landing you above him, knees braced on either side of his hips. As you straightened to straddle him, the blanket slid down your spine in a lazy cascade, leaving the cool air to brush against you.
A smirk tugged at your mouth, a gleam of mischief lighting your eyes, “So that’s all it took, huh?” you teased, leaning just close enough for your words to brush his lips, “A kiss… and a night sleeping beside me. Turns out you’re a real little princess after all.”
No laugh, no retort came from him. Instead, colour surged into his face, a deep crimson blooming from the tips of his ears to the line of his jaw. Wide eyes locked on you, lips parted slightly as though caught mid-breath. Whether the flush came from your words or the position you held him in, you couldn’t tell.
Fingers found your knees first, warm and steady, before tracing an unhurried path up your thighs. The touch was instinctive, reverent yet deliberate, sliding higher until they rested at your hips. Then, with a slow, almost languid intent, they slipped beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms, meeting bare skin. His fingertips pressed gently, enough to anchor you, enough to leave an echo of sensation in their wake.
“Save me,” he whispered, the words low, hoarse, like a breath dragged over raw edges, “Kiss me again… and again. Let me fall asleep in your arms every night until the end of my days.”
The plea struck deeper than you expected, heartbeat surging in your chest. Heat rushed to your own cheeks, breath catching at the weight of his request. The room seemed to shrink around you, the rain against the window dulling into background noise, until the only thing left was him, the warmth beneath your hands, the steady heat of his body beneath yours, and the quiet desperation woven into every word he’d just given you.
Fingers stayed curled lightly against the hem of his sweater, the fabric warm from the heat beneath. Breath came shallow, each inhale brushing across his parted lips, close enough that the air between you felt charged, fragile. The rain’s rhythm pressed against the silence, as though it too was waiting for what might come next.
A question stirred at the back of your mind, one that had been quietly building since last night. It was too big to ignore now, too present to keep locked away, “Verso…” the sound of his name came out softer than intended, careful, almost hesitant, “What… are we? Still just friends?” a pause stretched between heartbeats before the rest slipped out, breath catching, “Or something else?”
His gaze didn’t waver. The slow rise and fall of his chest stilled, as though he was weighing each word before letting it go. Rain blurred the edges of the world beyond the window, sealing you both into the quiet warmth of the room.
“We can be lovers, if you want that,” he said at last, voice low and steady, “Or we can stay friends, if that’s where you’re ready to be. We don’t have to put a word between us at all… if it feels too soon.” the faintest shadow of a smile tugged at his mouth before it faded into something softer, “But if I’m honest…” his fingers tightened at your hips, grounding you to him, “I’d rather be your lover than anything else.”
The word lover lingered in the space between you, heavy and delicate all at once, curling somewhere deep in your chest where it refused to let go. Heat rose along your throat, blooming under your skin in a way that made it hard to hold his gaze for too long. There was no joke in his tone, no smirk on his lips, only that raw, open truth that left no room for misinterpretation.
Your hand lifted to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as though testing whether this was real, whether the word had truly been spoken aloud, “Lover, then,” the whisper barely left your lips, but it was enough to draw something almost imperceptible from him, an exhale that sounded suspiciously like relief.
When he pulled you down into a kiss, there was no rush. Every movement was deliberate, steady, a careful weaving of warmth and promise, as though sealing something fragile but precious. His mouth moved against yours with the quiet certainty of someone who wasn’t trying to take, but to give, time, tenderness, the reassurance that this was his choice as much as it was yours.
His hands spread wider along your hips, coaxing you subtly closer until there was nothing left between you but heat and the steady thrum of your heartbeats. Breath mingled, warmth traded in gentle waves, each brush of his lips coaxing another shiver from your skin. The storm beyond the windows dulled into a distant heartbeat beneath the one pounding in your chest.
When you finally drew back, your eyes found his still fixed on you, no shadows to hide behind, only the unflinching truth of someone who had handed you the choice of what you could be together… and was quietly hoping you’d choose to keep him close.
The word lover barely had time to settle before his mouth was on yours again, quick and certain, as though speaking it had opened a floodgate. Your hands curled in his shirt, pulling him closer until his chest pressed firmly to yours. His fingers slipped higher along your sides, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding the warmth of your skin again, the contact sparking low in your stomach.
Breath came faster, but neither of you slowed. Each kiss chased the next, short, teasing brushes that turned into deeper, unhurried pulls. A laugh almost escaped you when his nose bumped yours, but it turned into another kiss instead, your lips parting to let him in.
Something new unfurled inside you, heady and warm, making you feel reckless in a way you hadn’t in years. It wasn’t just the closeness, it was the way his hands fit against you, the way his lips kept finding yours like he couldn’t help it, and how you didn’t want him to stop. Not now. Not ever.
But underneath that rush, the unease still pressed at the edges of your mind. No matter how steady his hands felt, no matter how alive he seemed under you, the truth hadn’t changed, nothing had been solved. Whatever was happening to him still lingered, silent and dangerous. The thought made your fingers tighten in the fabric at his shoulders, holding on like that could keep him here.
He felt it. Even without breaking the kiss, his touch slowed, one hand rising to cup your cheek. His thumb swept gently across your skin, urging you to meet his gaze.
“Are you okay?” his voice was low, a little rough from the way you’d been stealing his breath, but careful.
You didn’t answer right away. The heat in your face and the quickness of your breath made it easy to pretend you hadn’t heard, but the look in his eyes told you he already knew.
“I can feel it,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead to yours, “You’re scared. Not of me… but for me.”
Gaze locked in his for what feels like an eternity, uncertainty threads through every heartbeat. There’s no way of knowing if he’s aware of the truth, if Cléa and Alicia have already told him what’s happening… or if they’ve kept it hidden. The thought coils tightly inside, tangled with the fear that speaking it aloud could either shatter something fragile or finally open his eyes.
No questions come, no impatience, only the slow sweep of his thumb along your cheek, grounding you in the softness of the moment. Warmth seeps into skin where his palm rests, the steady rhythm of his touch loosening the knot in your chest. Another hand slips beneath your top, fingertips gliding along the curve of your back in slow, calming strokes, a mirror of the way you’d soothed him the night before. Each pass makes muscles soften, the tension ebbing despite the weight of what’s being held back.
Words escape before they can be caught, “I’m afraid of losing you,” the admission falls, voice almost breaking around the truth, “Even if you look fine now… I don’t know what could happen tomorrow. Or even an hour from now.”
Lips part, but before any answer can form, the next question spills out, “Did your sisters told you what’s going on?”
A small shake of the head follows, “No. The only time I saw them was at dinner.” a faint smile ghosts over his mouth as if replaying the moment, “When we left, Cléa gave me directions to your place. It was our only conversation of the day.”
Deep inside, a thousand silent thanks are offered to Cléa for making it possible, for giving this stolen piece of time that might never have existed otherwise. A mental note appeared in your brain, reminding you to thank her properly the next time you saw her.
Warm skin rested beneath your fingertips, his steady touch slowing until it finally stopped. The quiet between you thickened, not uncomfortable, but heavy enough to press at your ribs.
“Remember those stolen scrolls I told you about?” the words left before hesitation could stop them, “They were stolen the same day the writers visited your family. Not just any scrolls…. love spells.” a deep breath steadied you before continuing, “I went digging with a friend… and with Cléa and Alicia. We searched the archive room. That’s where we found it, a brooch. The others recognized it right away. Said it belonged to one of the people who visited your family.”
The memory made your pulse quicken, “At first, I was sure. Thought we’d caught the culprit. But now…” words softened, “…all it really proves is that one of them was there. We don’t know if they stole anything. We don’t know if they’re the one who… did this to you.”
His hands stilled completely, as though he were letting each word settle inside him. Eyes searched yours for a moment before drifting, unreadable.
“Why?” his voice was low, careful, “Why would anyone want to cast a love spell on me?”
A small, breathy laugh escaped before you could stop it, “Funny… Cléa asked that exact same question.” the line pulled a faint smile from him, and something in the air eased, the shadows on his face softening just enough to let the moment breathe.
A faint silence settled between you, soft at first, though it didn’t linger long before the weight of the unspoken returned. Awareness of what plagued Verso lingered at the back of your mind, its possible cause, the toll it took on him, the exhaustion etched into his features. You knew only what he chose to reveal, the surface-level truths, carefully stripped of the details that might offer clarity… details that could help you understand, maybe even help him.
The question felt fragile in your chest, dangerous if pressed too hard. Lips brushed his forehead in a quiet, lingering kiss before shifting downward, letting your head rest against him, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall beneath the thick knit of his sweater. The sound of his heartbeat came faint but certain through the wool, grounding you while your words hovered, hesitant.
“What exactly is wrong?” you asked softly, voice breaking the rhythm of his breathing, “What have you been feeling since then? What’s been going through your head that made you stop speaking to me for days, lose so much sleep… even pull away from your own family?”
The thump beneath your ear quickened, a small tell you could feel before you could hear. Fingers twitched against your side, and when you tried to push yourself up, a warm hand threaded gently into your hair, holding you where you were.
A slow breath steadied your own pulse, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” the words came low, careful, “I’m not trying to force you. I just… I want to understand so I can help. Not to hurt you more.”
Tone softened further, the tenderness in it unshaken, “And I meant it, when I said I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault.”
Beneath your cheek, the once-rapid heartbeat began to slow, easing into a calmer rhythm. It felt like your voice, your words, had found their way past whatever shadows lingered, enough to soothe the unrest, if only for now.
A long pause stretched between you. The stillness wasn’t avoidance, but something heavier, like he was arranging the words before trusting them to air.
“When it started,” his voice was low, almost unsure, “it wasn’t like catching a sickness. It was quieter. Slower. I woke up… and it was as if someone had rearranged my thoughts in the night. Not erased them, replaced them. And there she was. This girl. I don't know her. Don’t like her. Don’t want to see her... but it wasn’t just remembering her. It was like she’d been left there in my head on purpose. A presence. Breathing between my thoughts.”
His hand flexed gently in your hair, an unconscious tether, “I’d hear her voice, see her face in places she couldn’t be. And it wouldn’t stop. I’d try to push her out, force myself to think of you, your messages, your voice… but it never worked. Something inside me kept pulling toward her. And it made no sense. I don’t love her. I’ve never loved her. I don’t even know her damn name. But my heart,” his breath hitched, “it reacted like it did. Warmth. Want. Need. All of it, and none of it mine.”
Fingers loosened against your scalp, sliding to rest lightly at the back of your neck, “It was like… two versions of me. One that’s mine, and one that isn’t. The second keeps whispering what to feel, what to want, and I can’t shut it out. The more I fight it, the stronger it comes back. It’s exhausting. And it’s… frightening.”
The confession broke something in the air, leaving only the muted patter of rain beyond the walls. His voice had steadied, but the tightness in it carried the truth, this wasn’t confusion anymore, it was a quiet, gnawing fear. The pieces shifted into place in your mind, sharp and certain. Every detail he’d just given matched too perfectly. Love spells demanded blood from the caster, bound to the victim with precision no accident could mimic. If he was feeling her presence like this… it meant she was the one. No more doubt.
Relief stirred somewhere deep, at last, a real step forward, yet it was tangled with something far heavier. Days of torment, nights stolen from him, moments he’d spent suffocating inside his own head. And you had let yourself think, even for a moment, that his silence was about you. That it was something you’d done. Concern had been there, yes, but not the urgency he deserved. The realisation cut deep.
“I’m sorry,” the words came raw, “You were feeling all of this, and I… I was only thinking about myself. Wondering what I’d done wrong.”
A quiet hush followed, his thumb brushing along your hairline, “It’s fine,” he said, steady but gentle, “You didn’t know. And I know you, if I had told you, you’d have run to me faster than the speed of light.”
It was true. Every barrier, every locked door, every storm in the sky, you would have broken through them just to be near him. But that didn’t erase the guilt curling in your chest.
He felt it, too. The way your breath faltered, the faint tension in your shoulders, “There is something you can do,” he murmured, voice dipping with the hint of a smile, “and I’ll forgive you instantly.”
Lifting your head, you searched his expression, “What is it? I’ll do anything.”
“I’m hungry,” he said, tone warm with mischief, “and I won’t say no to breakfast.”
A soft swat landed against his chest, the wool of his sweater cushioning the playful blow, “Be serious.”
“I am,” he countered with a low chuckle, eyes brightening, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not because I can’t… but because I want to enjoy this day with you. A peaceful day. Besides…” his gaze caught yours, lingering, “you did say you’d do anything.”
A small sigh slips from your lips, softened by a smile. After all, you did say you’d do anything for him, and maybe it’s time to get out of bed. You press a quick kiss to his mouth before pushing yourself up, your feet brushing the cool floorboards as you make your way to the wardrobe. Fingers trail over fabric, not really seeing the clothes in front of you, just picking something for the day without thinking. It’s only when you pull your top over your head and the air brushes your bare skin that it hits you, Verso is still here.
You freeze, back turned, shoulders instinctively curling in to shield your chest from his view.
A soft chuckle rises behind you, “I thought lovers were less shy.” he murmurs, the words light, without mockery, “But I’ll respect your modesty.”
The bed creaks as he shifts, turning his gaze toward the window instead. The word, lovers, blooms in your mind, flooding your face with heat. Lovers. How had you let that slip to the back of your thoughts? He was your lover. You were his. Your heart drums hard enough to ache.
Slowly, you turn, arms falling to your sides. His name leaves your lips in a murmur. A simple, quiet “Hm?” answers you.
Silence hangs a moment before he turns his head. His eyes wander, the floor, the wall, a piece of furniture, then flick, almost by accident, to the bare skin of your chest. They dart away, then back, a small, unintentional rhythm between your body and your face.
Heat climbs higher in your cheeks, “Are we…” the words stumble out, softer than you meant, “Like… friends in love, or… a couple in love?”
His gaze locks on yours and stays there. After a breath, then another, he rises, stepping toward you with a slow, deliberate ease. His arms loop around your waist, pulling you into him until your chest presses to his. Your heart hammers against him, and you swear you feel his answering beat through your skin.
You lift onto your toes, arms winding around his neck. His forehead rests against yours, his breath brushing your lips when he asks, “What do you want us to be?”
Your mouth goes dry, your pulse so loud in your ears you’re sure he can hear it, “I want…” you swallow hard, “To be with you. As a couple.”
“So…” a faint smile tugs at his lips, “You want to go out with me, mon cœur?”
You nod too quickly, earning a quiet laugh, “Use your words.”
“Yes,” you breathe, the word spilling out faster than your next inhale.
His lips find yours, a feather-light touch that deepens almost instantly. The first brush is soft, unhurried, as though he’s tasting the word “yes” straight from your mouth. But the second press is firmer, warmer, drawing you in.
Step by step, he guides you backward, never breaking the kiss, until your hips bump against the edge of the desk. Hands slide to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the polished wood. Your knees part, welcoming him between your legs, and they curl around his waist like instinct.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a patient, teasing question. You open for him, letting him in, and the world narrows to the heat of his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, coaxing, exploring. Every stroke sends a ripple of heat through your body.
Fingers curl into the back of his neck, holding him there. His hands grip your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin through the fabric, anchoring you as he deepens the kiss. Your tongues tangle, pull apart, meet again, the rhythm unsteady but intoxicating, a dance you’ve never learned yet somehow know by heart.
A soft sound escapes you, caught between a sigh and a whimper, and you feel him answer with a low, pleased hum against your mouth. He tilts his head slightly, changing the angle, and the kiss shifts, hungrier now, though still deliberate. His tongue sweeps along yours, tasting, claiming, drawing you further into him.
You lose track of time. Each breath is stolen between brief, desperate partings before you crash together again. The warmth of him, the faint taste of his breath, the gentle scrape of teeth against your lower lip, all of it blurs into a haze that drowns every thought except him.
Your palms press against his chest, feeling the rapid thud beneath. One of his hands slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer until there’s no space left. His other hand grips your thigh, fingertips kneading lightly as if to remind you he’s there, holding you in place.
His tongue traces yours in a slow, deliberate stroke, then retreats just enough for his lips to capture yours again, softer now, almost reverent. The change makes your chest ache in a different way, a longing that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with wanting him like this forever.
When you finally break for air, foreheads still touching, you’re both breathing hard. His thumbs stroke along your waist in slow, grounding circles, and you know, without a single word, that he felt every second of it just as fiercely as you did. Both of you are breathless, lips swollen and tender from the countless kisses traded since waking. Warmth radiates between you, each inhale brushing against his skin, each exhale tinged with the taste of him still lingering in your mouth.
His gaze roams over your face, lingering on your parted lips before drifting lower, to the line of your neck, then further, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though the movement alone could hypnotize him.
Without a word, he leans in, burying his face into the curve of your neck. The heat of his breath spreads over your skin just before the first kiss lands, slow and deliberate. Another follows, then another, each one a little lower, each one heavier with intent. His mouth lingers, his lips part, and you feel the faint pull of him sucking gently at your skin.
A faint, pleased sound escapes you, your fingers finding their way into his hair, curling into the strands as he works his way along the slope of your neck. His lips close around you again, harder this time, a subtle ache blooming beneath the skin, a mark, a quiet claim.
He trails lower, mouth brushing along the line where your neck meets your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly before his lips seal over the spot. The steady suction draws another small gasp from you. Hickeys, one after another, map a slow path, down to your collarbone, where he lingers longer, tongue sweeping over the skin before the faint scrape of teeth follows.
His hands hold you steady, fingers splayed against your ribs as his mouth dips lower still, to the edge of your chest. There, his lips find the side, the warm curve, leaving another soft bite, another deep kiss that leaves the skin tingling in its wake.
Your breath comes quicker, every press of his mouth sending heat spiraling through you. His hair brushes against your skin as he moves, and your grip tightens just a little, keeping him close, not wanting him to stop.
His mouth drifts lower, each kiss slower than the last, tracing a heated path down your body. From the center of your chest, further still, until his lips brush over the soft plane of your stomach. Every press lingers as if he were worshipping you, as though each kiss were a vow laid carefully against your skin. Warm breath fans across your lower belly, and the sensation coils deep inside you, a rush of heat settling low.
Butterflies flutter violently in your chest, though the ache rising within you feels heavier, deeper, something dangerously close to pure longing. His lips linger just above where the fire burns hottest, and the reverence in the way he holds you makes your pulse race.
Then, slowly, he straightens. The loss of his mouth leaves your skin tingling, but before you can miss the warmth for long, his hands move to the hem of your sweater. Fingers slide deliberately along his sides, lifting the wool away. He pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, discarding it without care.
The sight that greets you steals the air from your lungs. Broad shoulders catch the dim light, chest sculpted yet natural, dusted with dark curls that trail down his torso. The strength in him is plain, but so is the softness, skin warm, alive, human. You drink him in, gaze tracing the line of muscle, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Mouth dry, you can’t look away.
A faint curve tugs at his lips as though he knows exactly the effect he has on you. Large, warm fingers reach for your face, his touch both gentle and commanding as he tilts your chin upward. Forced to meet his eyes, you find them molten, burning with something that makes your stomach twist all over again. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, slow, deliberate, dragging lightly over the tender skin. The simple stroke sends shivers racing down your spine, and your thighs press tighter around him, holding him in place, as if afraid he might pull away.
Every breath between you grows heavier, charged, and in that closeness you feel claimed, seen, cherished, his devotion laid bare without a single word.
He tilts his head slightly, exposing the long line of his throat, offering himself without a word. The silent invitation makes your pulse skip, and for a second you hesitate, unsure if you can give back what he had given you. But the look in his eyes, half-lidded, burning with trust and need, pushes you forward.
Your lips hover close, brushing the warmth of his skin without touching, only breathing him in first. His scent fills you, intoxicating enough to make your head spin. Slowly, you let your mouth meet his skin, soft kisses pressed just below his ear, then lower, until you reach the strong rise of his throat.
A shiver rolls through him the moment your lips close over his Adam’s apple. His breath stutters, chest lifting sharply beneath your hands as though the simple contact startled him in the best way. You kiss him there again, slower this time, and the faintest groan vibrates in his throat, deep and low, as if he couldn’t contain it.
Your tongue grazes his skin, warm and teasing, before you close your lips around the side of his neck instead, where the flesh is softer. A gentle suction, nothing more than a test, and his fingers clench instinctively against your waist. Encouraged, you linger, sucking harder until the skin darkens beneath your mouth. His breath comes out ragged, unsteady, and you feel his chest press tighter against yours with every drawn-in gasp.
Your kisses trail upward, lips brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. Each press earns a faint hum from deep in his chest, a sound of pleasure he can’t bite back. His head tilts toward you, as if instinctively seeking more, giving you better access. You kiss the curve of his chin before moving to the other side of his neck, where your lips close over him again, sucking slow, deliberate marks that mirror the ones he left on you.
Fingers wander over his torso, sliding across the warm skin, tangling in the coarse hair that curls across his chest. You play there idly, fingertips tracing circles, nails dragging lightly just enough to make him shiver.
A sharp breath escapes him at your touch, followed by a low, broken sound, something between a groan and a whisper of your name. His hands tremble against you, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just holding, as though afraid to break the moment.
Every kiss, every mark you leave, seems to unravel him further. His throat works as he swallows hard beneath your lips, the faintest whine catching in his breath as you drag your mouth slowly back toward the curve where neck meets shoulder. His whole body responds in small ways, shoulders tightening, chest heaving, his pulse racing beneath your mouth, each sound he makes telling you just how undone you’re making him.
Your lips press one last time against the hard line of his collarbone before pulling back. A faint ache lingers in your mouth, and when you lift your gaze, you see the scattered marks you left blooming over his skin. Maybe there are too many, maybe you’ve covered him more than you should have, but a strange pride warms you at the sight, he belongs to you, and you to him.
His chest rises and falls beneath your hands, breaths coming steadier now, softer, calmer. When your eyes meet his, something is different. The hunger that had burned there moments before has melted into something quieter, deeper. His gaze doesn’t wander to your lips, or your neck, or even your chest. It holds you, steady, as if every answer he has ever searched for lies only in the color of your eyes.
It feels like he’s drowning there willingly, letting himself be pulled under, no struggle, no fear. As though he sees something no one else could, something sacred reflected back at him. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s devotion. Maybe it’s both, tangled into something so fierce it makes your heart ache. For the first time, you believe those stories, the ones where two lovers look at each other like the world is nowhere else but between them.
His name slips from your lips before you even realize, fragile in the silence. A soft, low, “Hm?” hums from his throat, tender and attentive.
“I love you.” the words hang between you, delicate, vulnerable, more terrifying than any spell or shadow. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then his expression shifts, eyes shining in a way you’ve never seen, his mouth parting as though your confession stole the air from his lungs.
A faint tremor runs through him, chest tightening under your palms. His hands rise, framing your face with a gentleness that almost hurts. Thumbs brush your cheeks as if memorizing the moment. His forehead leans into yours, breath shaky, voice breaking on a whisper, “Mon amour...”
A laugh, small and choked, leaves him, half joy, half disbelief. His lips brush yours, not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one, as he murmurs again, rawer this time, “Je t’aime. Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime…” like he can’t say it enough, like the words had been locked inside him for too long, waiting for the moment you’d set them free.
And when he finally kisses you, it’s slower than before, but heavier, a promise sealed in the press of his mouth, one that says he is yours, utterly, irrevocably, and forever.
Silence held for a heartbeat after your words, heavy and fragile all at once. His gaze was still locked on yours, soft and unshaken, his hand warm against your cheek. You felt him draw in a breath, ready to speak… when the low rumble of his stomach broke the moment. Loud, undeniable.
He froze. Color crept up his neck, a flush that reached his ears as his lips parted, caught somewhere between embarrassment and a laugh. You blinked at him in surprise before the sound slipped out of you, a small laugh that quickly grew brighter, bubbling into the quiet.
He buried his face in his hands with a groan, “Seriously?” he muttered into his palms, voice muffled, “Of all the times…”
Your laughter only deepened, the sound pulling a reluctant smile from him. When his eyes met yours again, they shone with a mix of amusement and warmth. He leaned closer, brushing his nose against yours in a soft, playful gesture.
“Guess my body just doesn’t want to let me be romantic.” his voice dropped, “So, breakfast?”
His hands slid to your waist, steadying you as he helped you down from the desk. Feet touched the floor again, though the warmth of his touch lingered. You told him quietly to stay, that you’d be right back. The night before, once he had fallen asleep, you had washed his clothes, hanging them carefully to dry so he would have something clean to wear this morning. Now, you returned to your room with the folded pile in your arms, setting it gently on the edge of the bed.
It was only then that the realization struck, he was still standing there in nothing but his underclothes. Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, and you spun on your feet, eyes fixed stubbornly on the wall.
A low laugh slipped from him, amused, though not mocking. The sound was warm, teasing. Fabric rustled behind you as he pulled on his trousers, and when you risked a glance over your shoulder, he wasn’t reaching for his shirt. Instead, he crossed to the desk, plucking up the wool sweater you had lent him the night before. Your sweater.
The knit slipped over his head, falling into place around his shoulders, and you caught yourself staring as he adjusted the hem. A smile tugged at your lips, one brow arching.
“So,” you teased lightly, “are you planning to give that back, or just go home with it?”
He turned, a small, lopsided smile curving his mouth, eyes glinting with quiet mischief, “You’ll have your answer,” he murmured, “the day you can’t find it in your wardrobe anymore.”
Even with your back turned, you could feel his eyes on you, a weight that sent heat crawling up the nape of your neck. You hurried through the motions, trading soft fabric for day clothes, though every second of silence stretched thin with his quiet attention.
To break it, you asked lightly, “What do you want for breakfast? There’s a bakery not too far from here.”
Arms slid around you before you even finished the sentence, his chest pressing against your back, his chin hovering just above your shoulder, “I’d rather you cooked,” he murmured, voice warm against your ear, “or… we could cook together.”
A small laugh bubbled up, your shoulders shaking beneath his hold, “I can't cook. I mean, I’ve never really tried. The best I can do is… cold food that doesn’t need a stove. Do tell, you want me to burn the house down just so I’ll have to move in with you?”
“Maybe.” the word was soft, playful. His lips brushed your shoulder, a gentle kiss pressed to bare skin before he added, “Could be fun, though, trying together. But only if you want to.”
Your hand lifted almost instinctively, fingers sliding into his hair, stroking lightly, “For you,” you whispered, “I’ll try.”
The descent down the stairs was filled with a hush, your steps steady while his followed close behind, his presence a quiet shadow at your back. His gaze roamed freely, tracing along the framed pictures, the carved banister, the small details of your home he hadn’t had the chance to notice the night before. Everything seemed to catch his curiosity, every glance a small discovery.
In the kitchen, sunlight filtered through lace curtains, casting a soft glow across the tiled floor. You crossed to a wooden shelf, fingertips skimming along the spines of stacked recipe books until one caught your eye. Pulling it free, you set it open on the counter, pages whispering beneath your hands.
Before you could lean closer, warmth pressed against your back. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, his breath brushing your cheek as his eyes followed the words alongside yours. You could feel the weight of his chest rising and falling against you, steady and grounding.
Simple words met your gaze. Tartines with fresh butter and jam, and soft-boiled eggs. A classic, uncomplicated French breakfast. Bread toasted golden, butter melting instantly, sweet jam spread in ruby streaks across the surface. With it, eggs cooked just enough so the yolk ran soft and rich, perfect for dipping.
His voice hummed low against your ear, amused, “Even you can’t burn this.”
A quiet laugh slipped from you, head tilting slightly toward him, “Careful. That sounds like a challenge.”
Everything you needed was within reach, fresh bread wrapped in paper, a small crock of butter kept cool in the pantry, jars of jam sealed tight with wax paper tops, and a basket of eggs that still carried the faintest trace of straw. One by one, you placed them on the wooden table, lining them neatly as though preparing for a small feast. The metal clink of utensils followed, knives for spreading, spoons for stirring, a single pot for boiling water. There was something satisfying in the sight, the quiet promise of a meal made together.
Verso lingered close, watching you gather each item with a faint smile tugging at his lips, “Do you want me to help?” he offered, his voice low, steady, warm.
Pride swelled in your chest at the question, but more than pride, something playful, an urge to show him you could handle this, that you weren’t completely helpless in the kitchen. You shook your head lightly, arranging the butter and jam at the center of the table, “Not yet. I want to try. Just…” you glanced toward the stove, that imposing cast-iron contraption sitting against the wall, “…when it comes to that part, I’ll need you. I don’t know how to light it.”
Amusement flickered in his expression, though he said nothing, only nodded as though you had just entrusted him with something important. His hand brushed the small of your back briefly before he moved to lean against the table, arms crossed, watching you work.
The kitchen seemed quieter than usual, though the faint drip of rain from the gutters outside still pattered distantly. Every movement you made, the soft crackle of paper as you unwrapped the bread, the small clink of ceramic when you set down the butter dish, echoed louder in the hush. You felt his eyes on you, patient but attentive, like he was memorizing every gesture.
You cut the bread, careful not to saw too unevenly, though the slices turned out slightly crooked. It didn’t matter; the golden crust flaked under the knife, scattering crumbs across the table. Butter followed, softened enough to spread easily, melting almost instantly against the warm toast once you held the slices near the stove’s faint heat. Jam was next, bright, jewel-red, thick with pieces of fruit suspended within. The sweet scent filled the room, undercut by the richer, more subtle aroma of the butter.
Verso pushed himself off the table when you carried the pot over. You set it down with a small clatter and admitted, a little sheepish, “Now’s your turn.”
He smiled faintly, crouched, and with practiced ease struck the match, coaxing the stove to life. A soft blue flame bloomed beneath the pot, and for a moment you watched him in silence, fascinated by how effortlessly he managed the thing that had seemed daunting to you only moments ago. The sight of him crouched there, shoulders lit faintly by the morning glow through the window, stirred something deep and simple in your chest, comfort.
Once the water began to murmur with heat, he straightened, brushing his hands against his trousers, as if to rid them of invisible ash. He glanced at you, a teasing glint in his eyes, “See? Nothing to it.”
You pretended to scoff, though the corners of your lips betrayed you, “I could’ve done it. I just… didn’t want to embarrass you if I did it better.”
The chuckle that escaped him was soft, genuine, and it made your stomach flip in the most pleasant way. He stepped closer, his presence warm against your side as he leaned over the table, checking the spread, “Impressive,” he murmured, and you couldn’t tell if he meant the food or the effort, but either way, the word lit something proud in you.
Eggs lowered into the simmering water, timer in your head ticking silently. You stood side by side now, shoulders brushing whenever either of you moved. His hand occasionally reached past yours, fingers grazing lightly, leaving small sparks in their wake.
“This isn’t so bad,” you admitted softly, watching the pot, “Cooking, I mean.”
“Not bad at all,” he agreed, leaning down just enough that his words touched your ear like a secret, “Especially with you.”
The warmth of his voice, the subtle intimacy in his tone, made your chest tighten. You caught your reflection faintly in the window above the sink, cheeks warmed with a flush you couldn’t hide, eyes too bright, lips still faintly swollen from earlier. And in that fleeting glance, you realized how new this quiet moment was, just the two of you, learning something ordinary, something tender, together.
By the time the eggs were ready, the kitchen smelled of melted butter, toasted bread, and something sweeter still. A pot of milk had warmed gently on the stove, and into it you had stirred shavings of chocolate, watching them dissolve until the liquid turned rich and velvety. The scent filled the room, heavier and more indulgent than anything else on the table.
The meal was simple, humble, nothing extraordinary by any measure. Yet when he sat across from you at the wooden table, his sleeve brushing yours as he reached for the bread, and when he smiled faintly as if this small breakfast were the greatest luxury, a strange realization washed over you. It didn’t feel like stolen time, or like the fragile secret of two lovers hiding from the world. No, this felt different. Safer. As though you were already sharing a life, the ordinary rhythm of a morning spent together. Butter on bread, steam rising from the pot, the bittersweet perfume of chocolate, his laughter breaking the hush of the house, every detail carried the quiet intimacy of a young married couple, beginning their day side by side.
And in that fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing it could always be like this.
Summary : You can't get that image out of your head. Verso? In someone else's arms? After everything you shared together? Were his sweet words and little nicknames nothing but empty air to him?
Author's note : I hope that with this... you'll forgive me for the angst of the previous chapter.
chapter V
The days began to pass without flavor, like a fine rain that never stopped. It was impossible to say when the first drop had fallen, but you could feel it had already soaked you to the bone. No word, no message, not even that discreet sign that used to be enough to make you smile foolishly. Nothing. As if the invisible thread that connected you had been severed clean. As if everything had been swallowed by a heavy, black ocean.
Usually welcoming, the house now seemed to have tightened its walls. Each room echoed with a strange emptiness, an absence that made no sound but weighed on every one of your movements. The windows let in the light, but it warmed nothing, it merely rested there, pale and distant, like a veil over the furniture.
On the desk, the book lay open, within reach, heavy as a stone. It was your link, the place where you had deposited every thought you hadn’t dared say aloud. The pages, scratched with ink, looked like a battlefield lost before it began. The first lines breathed the innocence of beginnings, then grew more intimate, more intense. Nicknames, compliments, sweet words from both you and him… and then, nothing. Just you. Your little daily hellos, your questions about his day, then your worries, your fear, your sadness. Sentences cut off in mid-thought, as if the thought itself had stumbled. Cross-outs piled up, thick and dark, until they swallowed everything under the heaviness of lines pressed too hard.
Ironically, that little flame, the one you had felt only once before, in front of a painting by Verso, chose to awaken now. The gut-deep urge to write, the kind that feeds writers’ minds and gives them strength and imagination… it had sprung up overnight, without warning. It appeared when you were at your lowest. As if you were made to write only sad poems, depressing prose, as if your flame refused you happiness and demanded that you draw your inspiration from a broken heart. Before, you’d never had this energy, this need to blacken entire pages. Now it finally burned… but with a cold, cutting fire. Cruel irony, this pain became your only fuel, and you couldn’t tell whether it was saving you or finishing you off.
Each word fell onto the page like a drop of black ink. The verses followed one another, but they didn’t sing. They wept, they choked. And you kept writing, as if engraving this pain could make it disappear. The paper hurt under your hand, the cross-outs became scars. You weren’t writing to remember, but so you wouldn’t completely lose yourself.
Always the same question, nagging, beating in your head like a clock that strikes only one hour, what had gone wrong? A word, a phrase misunderstood? Maybe everything had gone too fast and he had gotten scared. Maybe he regretted trusting you, letting you into his life. Or maybe none of it had ever mattered to him, and he had simply drawn a line, dismissing this encounter as a fleeting curiosity quickly forgotten. Worse still, maybe you had made it all up, misread his words, and been the only one to hope, the only one to get attached, the only one to see a future in each little gesture that meant nothing to him. Then maybe there was no one to blame but yourself.
Night brought no respite. Dreams, cruel, brought him back to you with unbearable precision. You relived moments that, by morning, felt unreal, the lines of his face, the light in his eyes… all returned with almost painful clarity, as if your mind wanted to freeze what was already fading. Each time you woke, your hand would almost reach out, your chest tight, your throat knotted… but there was only emptiness. And that silence. Always that silence.
The hours lost all shape. Sometimes you thought you heard a familiar step in the street, hoping he’d come to your door, even though he didn’t know where you lived. Sometimes you thought you caught his scent, but it was only the wind playing with your memory. Time moved on without caring about you, dragging behind it the bitter taste of longing and uncertainty.
One day, the clear chime of a bell cut through the stifling air of your house, snapping you out of your thoughts as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you. With your parents gone for the week, you weren’t expecting anyone. Feet heavy, you left your room. The floorboards creaked more than usual, until the hall rug muffled the sound. A few days earlier, you might have hoped to find Verso behind the door… but you’d stopped believing in that kind of miracle. When you opened it, you froze for a moment, your friend, the one who had given you the two books. No indiscreet questions, no reproach. Just a smile, thin but sincere, like a window cracked open in the stale air of these last days.
The first few minutes passed in hesitant exchanges, the words seeming rusty. Yet her presence warmed something in you. You talked about everything and nothing, skirting the subject that gnawed at you. A few awkward but genuine jokes finally drew a clear, fragile laugh from you, as if your heart had forgotten how to make that sound in recent days.
The idea of an outing slipped in almost without you noticing. The big bookstore, with its towering shelves and smell of dust, seemed like the perfect refuge… but she suggested instead that you visit the adjoining garden, both a reading space and a resting place for students.
The fresh air on your face nearly drew a sigh from you. The cobblestones echoed under your steps, and little by little your breathing grew calmer. You clung to her voice like one clings to a railing over a void. You expected nothing from the day except to forget, or at least to push away, what hurt you.
And then, without warning, the world slowed. On the other side of the street, a familiar silhouette. Light slid over his hair, over the line of his shoulders. Verso. Framed by his family, like a scene carefully painted. The sounds around you faded, leaving only your eyes meeting his… or perhaps it was an illusion.
One second was enough to steal your breath. Your chest tightened, your hands trembled. You didn’t know whether his family hadn’t noticed you, or whether you’d simply erased their presence to see only him. Well… him, and the girl you didn’t know, nestled against him with an intimacy that struck you like a blade. No words, just that frozen look and a silence heavier than the crowd.
Your throat closed, your vision blurred with tears, you stayed frozen. Memories overlaid the scene, dragging you back to all those phrases, those gestures that suddenly made no sense. That embrace that wasn’t yours. Their arms seemed made to find each other that way, the fingers of that stranger seemed made for him, drawn to rest on his shoulders. And your mind etched the image forever. Your feet refused to move, as if leaving meant abandoning him for good.
The voice of your friend pulled you from the trance. She was calling you from the hall, dragging you brutally back to the present. Without thinking, you crossed the street. The door closed behind you, cutting Verso from your sight. Cutting you from his sight.
A few seconds passed in light silence. Suddenly, you felt as if she could read your mind, you were about to tell her not to worry, maybe even to pretend that everything was fine… but she cut you off, as if she truly could read your thoughts, “No need to lie, or explain. I read it all on your face.”
A dry, nervous, slightly ridiculous laugh escaped you, “It’s stupid, I…” the sentence died on its own.
“Stop,” her voice was firm, but not harsh, “All men are jerks.” a shrug accompanied the line, “Come, I’ll show you something. It’ll take your mind off things… I hope.”
The fresh garden air seeped in, but didn’t dissolve the weight clinging to your chest. Your steps followed hers almost mechanically. Every movement echoed in your tired body, and your mind refused to let go of that image looping endlessly, that moment on his lap. The warmth of his body against your back, the shiver of closeness, that intimacy that had felt real. How could it have meant nothing? How could he erase it so easily? The scene replayed again and again, each time digging deeper, like a splinter you can’t pull out.
Her voice barely reached you through the inner fog, “I got permission to do some gardening here,” she said, running her hand along a small fence, “It wasn’t easy… but I wanted to, ever since the academician who took me under her wing told me she loved writing surrounded by plants, it made me want to do the same!”
You listened without really listening. The words were there, but they didn’t pass through you. They bounced somewhere inside and fell inert. Yet your gaze slid over the place. The stone-paved ground, the splashes of color from the flowerbeds, the light filtering between the branches. It was beautiful. Objectively beautiful. And it struck you how unable you were to enjoy it. In another state, you would have stopped to take a deep breath, to let the image imprint itself. Now, everything felt distant, unreachable, as if seen through glass.
Your eyes finally caught on a detail, under a large tree, a swing bench. A wooden seat suspended just above the ground, held by thick ropes adorned with small midnight-blue flowers. Flower beds encircled the trunk, a stone path led to the spot like a refuge. From there, you could overlook part of the garden, see everything… or avoid it all.
The contrast tightened your chest even more. The rest of the garden was neat, perfectly trimmed, symmetrical to obsession. Here, it was calculated disorder, harmony that didn’t try to please. It should have soothed you. It only underlined how dissonant everything in you felt.
Her words stopped. You could feel her watching you. She understood. Her eyes widened, sparkling, as if an idea had just been born, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
And she left, first walking, then running. Silence fell again. You stood still for a moment, staring at the suspended seat. Your fingers touched the wood, cold under your skin. The ropes creaked slightly as you tested their strength. Finally, you sat. The backrest received you gently, but it did nothing to ease the burning in your chest.
A slight swaying began. The regular creak matched your uneven breathing. The air smelled of cut grass, damp earth… but nothing pierced the barrier. Each movement of the swing reminded you of that other embrace, that body you had nestled against, convinced it meant something. Your hands on your knees clenched. Your jaw tightened. Your eyes stung. You wanted to cry, to scream, to let it all out. But nothing came, as if even the pain was trapped inside, compressed until it was suffocating.
Your gaze drifted to the sky, gray and low, as if it weighed on your shoulders. Your thoughts drifted from Verso to yourself, adrift without control. You thought of your friend, who once had been as shy as you, almost invisible… Now she brimmed with life, moving forward with a future that seemed already mapped, fed by her passions, her hobbies.
You had nothing. Thinking back over your life, you realized it all seemed blurry, indistinct, as if it had only truly begun the day you met Verso. As if everything before him had been erased, revealing how hollow your existence had been until then.
Before Verso, there had been no real friendships. No burning memories, no strong bonds. Nothing tangible. Unlike them, you had no passion, no hobby you truly cared about, nothing that made you unique. And the more you thought about it, the more the truth sank in like a blade, there was nothing that made your life interesting. Nothing that made you interesting. Verso was a talented painter who loved the piano. Your friend, a gifted writer passionate about astrology and the stars, discovering new hobbies every day to color her life.
The swing’s gentle rocking brought no comfort. Every movement seemed instead to emphasize the emptiness dragging you downward, as if the ropes weren’t there to hold you but to keep you suspended above a void. The garden around you, calm as it was, seemed distant, almost foreign. Voices in the distance mingled with the rustling leaves, forming a monotonous background with no relief.
The smells of flowers and damp earth drifted toward you but found no hold. Your body was there, seated, swaying gently, but your mind remained locked behind an invisible wall. Everything in you screamed to breathe, to relax… but nothing broke through. The air came in, left, without ever dislodging the hard knot in your chest.
Whenever your thoughts tried to cling to something neutral, they circled back to him. Verso, and that scene looping like an old, worn film. His face, his gaze, that past closeness… and the brutality of the absence now. You wished the image would fade, lose its sharpness, but instead, it grew clearer with each replay, as if your memory were intent on torturing you. Your fingers tightened on the seat’s edge. You felt the bite of the wood against your palm, a hard, rough contact, almost painful. You caught yourself gripping harder, searching in that physical sensation for a way to eclipse, even briefly, the mental pain. In vain. The burn remained.
Time stretched, slow and thick. You didn’t know if you’d been there for a minute or ten. The heavy sky seemed to watch you, a silent accomplice to your state. And you stayed frozen, with that weight in your stomach, that urge to cry with no outlet, that urge to scream drowning before reaching your lips.
The sound of hurried footsteps came over the stone tiles. Your head turned slowly, as if your muscles hesitated to obey. Your friend reappeared, slightly out of breath, a small package clutched to her chest. She approached without a word, climbed onto the swing, and sat facing you. The ropes groaned in protest, but the seat stayed perfectly steady.
“Here,” she said at last, pulling out a deck of worn-patterned cards, “I thought… maybe this could help you put words to what you’re feeling.”
Your fingers hesitated before brushing the deck, “Tarot?” the voice that came from your throat was low, almost strangled, “You know I don’t believe in that stuff…”
She nodded, “I know, a lot of people are skeptical… but sometimes, it just feels good to hear something, even if it’s symbolic.”
You didn’t answer. The silence was heavy, but not empty. There was the slow, almost imperceptible swaying that matched your breathing. Finally, she began shuffling the cards with precise movements, as if that simple act could recentre everything around her.
You drew three cards and placed them between you, their colors and symbols catching the light filtering through the leaves above.
She pointed to the first, “Three of Swords,” her eyes lifted to yours, cautious, “It speaks of betrayal, heartbreak… emotional pain.” her voice softened to almost a whisper, “As if something or someone had pierced you so deeply you don’t know if you can stitch the wound closed.”
The card seemed to vibrate under your gaze. You said nothing, but your fingers tightened slightly on the swing’s wooden edge.
The second card slid toward you, “The Moon,” she took a breath before continuing, “Illusions… uncertainty… hidden things. It’s that feeling that everything is blurry, that you don’t know what’s true or not… that your own memories betray you.”
A bitter laugh escaped you, dry and joyless, “Blurry, that’s for sure…” you looked away, as if staring at the card could pull you inside it.
She placed the last, “Eight of Swords,” she gave you a few seconds to observe the drawing, a figure surrounded by swords, eyes blindfolded, “A feeling of imprisonment. Mental blockage. As if you knew there was a way out… but you couldn’t see it.”
Your lips trembled, and you murmured, “That’s… exactly it.”
She crossed her legs on the swing, leaning slightly toward you, “Listen… you don’t have to tell me everything. But I want you to know you’re not alone. And even if today it feels like everything is over, that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way.” with tenderness, she placed a hand on your shoulder, the gesture simple, but warm and reassuring, “It’ll get better, sooner or later. It might take days or months, but I promise it’ll get better.”
You lowered your eyes to the cards, letting them fill the space between you like an imperfect mirror of your state. The swing kept swaying gently, and for a moment you felt that if it stopped, everything else around you would stop too.
A shiver passed through the garden. At first, it was just a subtle change in the air, almost imperceptible, like a vibration. Then, one figure stood up, followed by another, and the movement spread. Conversations broke off, benches emptied. The first hurried steps echoed on the stone tiles, quickly followed by more, louder ones. In seconds, the place lost its calm. Glances met, questioning, but everyone seemed to agree on one thing, something was happening in the hall. Figures moved closer together, forming a compact stream toward the building. Voices mingled, too confused to make out words, but charged with a mix of irritation and curiosity.
The swing stopped moving. The movement of the crowd made the decision for you, there was no point staying here without knowing what was going on. Your steps followed your friend’s, jostled by shoulders and elbows as others pushed forward. The cold stone floor sent the sound of hurried steps back in chaotic echoes.
As the entrance drew nearer, a voice pierced the ambient buzz. Impossible to mistake the tone, Cléa. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she with the rest of her family? The tone was sharp, tense, more cutting than usual, as if each word were trying to force a way through. Between her phrases, others, even harsher, responded, the receptionist, clearly unwilling to let her through. The authoritative tone wasn’t feigned.
The snippets became clearer, an insistent request to find someone, a firm, repeated refusal. The truth was obvious, Cléa had no business being here. The Dessendre family, the painters, were persona non grata, and the fact that she’d crossed the threshold was either provocation or desperation. The persistence in her voice left no doubt it was the latter.
Pushing through the circle of onlookers took persistence. Shoulders bumped, murmurs swelled with each inch gained. Faces, closed-off, watched the scene like an indecent show. And suddenly, an opening. Cléa appeared, planted in front of the counter, hands flat on the wood, leaning slightly toward the receptionist. Far behind her, Alicia waited in the background, eyes watchful, her body almost pressed into the wall, as if she was afraid to stand too close to the reception desk.
A hesitant breath. Calling their names here was the same as putting yourself in danger, and suspicious eyes were already turning at the slightest odd movement. But doing nothing would have been worse, “Cléa? Alicia?”
The murmur turned into a tense silence. A few heads turned slowly, as if the moment was worth savoring. The two in question reacted immediately. Their faces lifted all at once, a flash of almost relief crossing their eyes. Without hesitation, they skirted the makeshift counter formed by the crowd and walked straight toward the voice.
Cléa was the first to speak, words rushing out, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, but this woman refused to let me in. It’s urgent. We need to talk, now.”
Her tone left no room for argument. No needless politeness, no detour, urgency was written in the set of her jaw, in the tension of her hands, in the worried look of her little sister, usually so quick to smile.
A prickling settled on the back of your neck. The stares around you weighed like an invisible fire. The air felt denser, saturated with silent hostility. Luckily, most people were too busy being scandalized at the presence of a painter here to pay attention to the exchange.
A quick gesture toward the exit invited the other three to follow you. Bodies parted just enough to let you pass, with a deliberate slowness that radiated contempt. The faces seemed almost pleased to see the two painters leaving. In the distance, you could hear a faint, “Good riddance.” Outside air cut sharply through the muffled hum of the hall. The cobblestones echoed clearer, sharper sounds as the distance grew between you and the building.
The path you chose led to a safe place, away from prying ears, your home. Being so close brought a flicker of relief; just a few more minutes and you’d be somewhere you could speak without fear of being interrupted. Cléa, walking beside you, kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her jaw tight. Not a single word escaped her, as though every second spent on the way was wasted time. Behind you, the voices of your friend and Alicia intertwined in a lighter tone. Their natural bond seemed to weave itself effortlessly, their laughter punctuating the walk, a sharp contrast to the silent tension leading the way.
The walk passed in near silence. The air grew heavier with each step, as if the words Cléa held between her lips were pressing down on the atmosphere. Cobblestones slipped quickly beneath your feet, and the distance from the hall to your home vanished in minutes.
The key turned in the lock with a sharp click. The door gave way in a soft breath, letting in the coolness of a familiar interior, “Don’t bother taking off your shoes,” you said, pushing the door wider, “I’ll deal with the cleaning later.”
With your parents gone until the end of the week, there was no need for the usual caution. No detour to a bedroom was necessary; the living room would serve for the conversation. The space, bathed in soft light, held a kind of almost cold neutrality, as if it were still waiting to be warmed. Each of them took a seat. Your friend chose an armchair, Alicia settled onto the couch opposite the coffee table. Cléa, however, came straight to the seat beside you, deliberately closing the space between you. The closeness carried its own kind of raw tension. Your gaze instinctively shifted from Cléa to Alicia, as if trying to read what was at play. The air hung with waiting, thickened by silence.
Cléa was the one to break the fragile balance, “Something’s wrong with Verso. He’s not himself anymore.”
A breath escaped you, almost a laugh, but stripped of any humor. Your lips curved in a smile without warmth, “I saw him earlier… with a girl. He seemed fine. Very fine, actually.”
Your gaze drifted away, seeking refuge in the patterns of the rug. Your eyes fixed on the floor with almost painful intensity, as if avoiding the burn of direct eye contact.
A sudden movement. Cléa’s hands came up to frame your face, forcing your eyes back to hers in a sharp, almost jarring motion. Her grip wasn’t gentle, tightening your jaw and neck under the pressure, “Listen to me. He’s anything but fine. I don’t recognize him anymore. And believe me… he doesn’t recognize himself either.”
Her words dropped heavy, as if hammering each syllable into your skin, “You know how Verso is… He’s not the most sociable man, but he’s not antisocial or shy either. Every time we bicker, he tries to have the last word, to be sharper than me. Always a smile on his face, even a small one, every time he spent time with us, with family. Now… all of that’s gone. He barely speaks, and when he does, it’s curt, cut short. He avoids looking at people, like faces have turned into walls. Even the way he holds himself… it’s like everything’s too heavy on his shoulders…”
Cléa drew in a breath, her hands still anchored on either side of your face, “He always had this energy, that smile, ever since you met him, even when he was tired. Now it’s… like there’s nothing left behind his eyes. His words come out without warmth. He just stands there, frozen, absent even when he’s in the room. And that’s only when he bothers to leave his bedroom. And when he thinks no one’s looking… his expression is unrecognizable. It’s not sadness, not really… it’s darker than that.”
Her fingers eased slightly, but not enough to break the eye contact, “What you saw, that image in the street… it’s just a façade. And it’s costing him.”
Seconds stretched into hours, every invisible tick of the clock weighing down the air. Cléa’s eyes stayed locked on yours, trying to push something through the wall you’d unknowingly built. Then Alicia spoke, her voice softer but just as sharp, “He barely leaves his room anymore, eats less than before… and from the look of those dark circles, his nights can’t be much better.”
There was no melodrama in her tone for the sake of it; it was a cold, clear statement, and maybe that was what hurt the most. Every word sounded like another nail in a truth you didn’t want to face.
Alicia went on, her hands folded neatly on her knees, “Even our parents are worried. Today they had to meet the Head of the Writers’ Council. An important meeting, for both districts. They wanted to cancel, for Verso’s sake, to wait until he was better… but it was impossible.”
A brief silence followed, as if her words had opened a space no one dared to step into. Then Cléa’s face changed. A shadow passed over her eyes, an impossible-to-read mix of anger, suspicion… or doubt. Maybe all three at once. Her jaw tightened slightly before she continued, “This all… started not long ago. Not weeks. Not months. No… just a few days ago, right after that family of writers visited the manor. The very next day.”
Her words cracked through the air like a verdict. Cléa’s hands finally dropped from your face, but her gaze didn’t release you, “I don’t know what happened. I have no proof they’re responsible. But I’m certain of one thing… something’s wrong. And it’s not coming from him.”
Cléa and Alicia’s words hung heavy, branded into your mind like they’d been seared there. Each sentence found an echo in your memories, leaving an indelible mark. Your hands rested on your knees, not to restrain you, but to anchor you in this precise moment.
Maybe you didn’t know Verso as well as they did, or as his parents had all his life. But you knew him well enough to feel there was something false in the image he’d given on the street, in the way his sisters described his recent days, the change. The attitude, the presence, what he radiated… it didn’t match. Earlier, you’d been too far away. Too far to catch the nuances in his expression, too far to notice if there was, in the curve of his lips or the depth of his eyes, something betraying a crack. Maybe if you’d been closer… maybe you would have seen what Cléa and Alicia were describing.
Silence settled over the room, dense, almost tangible. Your gaze lost itself in some undefined point, and no one tried to pull you back. Not your friend, not Cléa, not Alicia. They stayed there, unmoving, patient, as if they knew the words they’d just spoken needed time to seep in, to take root before any answer could come.
Your thoughts clashed inside you. You didn’t know whether to feel a sort of relief or to sink deeper still. Relief, because maybe there was a chance, small, fragile, that what had happened between you wasn’t just an illusion. That his words, his compliments, that particular way he had of provoking you, holding onto you, making you smile… had been sincere. That it hadn’t been a game. That somewhere in his mind, even a tiny future had existed.
But there was also a crushing sadness, heavier still. Sadness for him, for the state he was in. Sadness for how you had reacted, running away. Turning your back on what he was going through. When he was standing at the edge of a cliff, you hadn’t reached for him. You’d let him slip further, swallowed by that bottomless pit, without even trying to throw him a rope so he could have a chance to climb out, to be saved. Guilt curled inside your chest, sharp. You blamed yourself. And the more you thought about it, the more the worry grew, twisting every single heartbeat.
A long silence stretched out, the kind that makes the air feel thicker. The information kept turning over in your mind, like a gear refusing to stop. And then, a memory snapped into place in your head like a sharp crack, the day that famous family of writers had visited the Dessendres… it was the very same day the scrolls had been stolen from the archive room. And the next day, Verso had begun to change.
Your gaze lifted to your friend, your expression more focused than you would have thought possible after everything you had just heard, “You think… it could be connected? The writers’ visit, the theft of the scrolls in the archive room… The two events line up too well for it to be just a coincidence.”
A brief silence, then a faint furrow of your friend’s brows, “We can’t be sure. But honestly… coincidences like that are rarely just guesses.”
A quick exchange passed between Cléa and Alicia. They seemed to understand each other with just a look, but it was Alicia who spoke, “The archive room… and those stories about scrolls… what exactly is it?”
It was true, you had forgotten that detail, even though it was important. Your friend straightened slightly, her tone heavier, “It’s a hidden place. A room only academicians and high-ranking people can access. It’s where we keep writings of old, forgotten, forbidden… and dangerous magic.”
Cléa raised an eyebrow, and your friend went on, “I know how to get in because my mentor is an academician. And… that other girl, she must know the way too. Daughter of the head of the Writers’ Council, you can imagine she has her own way in.”
“Dangerous how?” Cléa asked, arms crossed.
“Some spells require blood. And not just a drop. The more powerful the spell, the more it demands.”
the room seemed to grow colder. The hairs on your arms stood on end, even though you already knew this, the situation made the information harder to hear. But your friend wasn’t finished, “According to my mentor, the stolen spells are… specific. They’re love spells. One of them needs a love letter written with blood, which you burn with a red candle. Another… it’s a spell jar, you fill a jar with honey, drop in a piece of paper with your name written over the name of the person you want to attract… again, with blood.”
Cléa shook her head, jaw tight, “One coincidence too many. I don’t like the idea that someone might be trying to force Verso to fall in love with them.”
She paused, then, true to herself, added with a hint of irony, “And honestly… there are better choices than my brother. I don’t get why him in particular.”
You had stayed silent until now, absorbing every word, but that last comment brought a reply to your lips before you could stop it. Your head turned away to avoid Cléa’s gaze, she seemed to know you were about to respond, “He has his flaws, yes… but also his good points.”
A smirk tugged at Cléa’s lips, “Of course you’d defend him.”
The tension eased slightly, the atmosphere becoming a bit more breathable again. The discussion continued, calmer now, more measured. Soon, the conclusion was clear: they couldn’t accuse someone so influential without proof. That would only inflame the already unstable tensions between writers and painters. They’d have to be careful.
After several minutes of reflection and exchanged ideas, a plan began to take shape. You stood first, glancing at each of the three girls, “So, we’re agreed? Cléa draws everyone to the hall… while we slip away to search the archive room and see if we can find anything.”
Cléa rose as well, a faintly predatory smile on her lips, “Perfect. I was just dying to see that awful receptionist again.”
The afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, painting golden stripes across the cobblestones. The walk to the great library was made almost in silence, footsteps echoing softly against the tiles beneath your shoes. The warm air carried with it a scent of paper and dust that seemed to seep from the building itself.
Cléa took the lead without hesitation, her posture straight and confident, ready to play her part. She crossed the threshold with a determined step, and the three of you stayed outside, under the shade of an awning, waiting for the distraction to begin.
Alicia, beside you, kept glancing toward the entrance, as if measuring the time. There was a strange mixture in her eyes, a palpable tension, but also… an almost childlike excitement, “You know, if you want… you could go back to my place,” you whispered, voice deliberately low.
She shook her head immediately, arms crossed, “No. Not happening. He’s my brother. If I can do something to help Verso, I will.” her tone left no room for discussion.
A few minutes passed, the flow of passers-by slowly shifting into a more concentrated movement toward the library. Through the windows, you could make out a crowd gathering in the hall. Voices rose, confused, punctuated by snippets of sentences and overlapping whispers. The plan was working better than expected.
Your friend gave one last glance before murmuring, “This is it.”
The three of you crossed the threshold, blending into the atmosphere. No hurried steps, no suspicious behavior, just three readers among many. The crowded reception area held everyone’s attention, leaving the rest of the library nearly deserted. The aisles seemed wider. You cast a discreet glance toward Cléa, admiring her acting skills and composure. She clearly seemed to be enjoying herself.
Reaching a side door, almost hidden behind a row of tall shelves, your friend didn’t waste a second. She stepped up to a lantern fixed to the wall, gripped it firmly, and pulled it to the side. A heavy click sounded, followed by a sharp creak as part of the stone wall slowly pivoted. The opening revealed a narrow, muffled passage, breathing out the scent of ancient dust. The sound had been loud, metallic, but given the location, far from the reception desk and the main flow of people, it was unlikely anyone had heard it.
You exchanged glances, then stepped through. The archive room unfolded in all its vastness, an almost oppressive space, crammed with piles of wooden boxes overflowing with scrolls. The walls vanished behind shelves sagging under the weight of ancient manuscripts, so overloaded that some scrolls had been left abandoned in stacks on the floor. There wasn’t a single window here. The lanterns on the wall were your only guide, their flickering light dancing across the dust in the air.
Your steps slowed, measured. Every movement was careful to avoid bumping anything. The silence, broken only by the faint rustle of clothing, made the tension almost tangible.
Long minutes passed this way, scanning the shelves, leaning over certain boxes, never daring to touch directly. Then, a sharp clink.
As you stepped forward, your foot hit something, a small metallic object that rolled away and vanished beneath a massive piece of furniture. Heart pounding, you crouched, pressing one hand against the cold floor to slide yourself into the narrow gap. Your fingers searched in the shadows, brushing rough stone, until they met a smooth, cold surface.
The metal slid into your hand as you pulled it toward you. The light revealed a finely crafted golden brooch, its design reminiscent of a crest. You straightened at once, calling the others in a low but urgent voice.
Alicia and your friend drew near, their eyes widening at the sight of the object, “I’ve seen this before,” Alicia said, her voice vibrating, “The whole family wears one. The girl, her brother… and their parents too.”
The other investigator nodded slowly, “Yes. That’s right. I’ve seen the head of the Writers’ Council with this exact same brooch.”
The brooch turned between your fingers, catching a ray of light that made its engravings gleam, “So that means… whoever came here doesn’t have it on them anymore. And if we find out who’s missing theirs… we’ll know who it is.”
A heavy silence settled in, each of you letting the conclusion take root. It wasn’t absolute proof… but it was a much stronger lead than anything you’d had so far.
The stone wall closed with a muffled rumble, shutting the dusty scent of the archive room behind you. You felt as if a weight had settled in your chest, one that had nothing to do with the object itself, and everything to do with what it meant. The corridors swallowed you again, dark, almost oppressive. Every step seemed to echo louder than it should, every shadow seemed to stretch longer.
As you approached the hall, the murmur swelled like a rising tide. The crowd was still there, dense, huddled near the reception desk where an electric tension lingered in the air. Snatches of voices, sharp whispers, a palpable, unhealthy curiosity. You slipped into the stream of bodies, your gaze catching Cléa’s, stationed nearby. A slight nod, barely perceptible yet unmistakable, ordered you to keep walking.
You stepped out through the large doors, the outside air hitting your faces like a release.
A few minutes passed before Cléa joined you, her quick steps betraying her urgency. Once away from prying ears, you pulled the brooch from your pocket. It glimmered faintly under the pale afternoon light, revealing its delicate, almost arrogantly perfect details.
Cléa froze, her expression hardening into pure anger. Her jaw tightened, her eyes steeled, and she hissed between clenched teeth, “It’s one of theirs, no doubt about it.”
There was no room for argument. The brooch was far too distinctive to belong to anyone else. But one clue wasn’t enough. The culprit still slipped through their fingers.
The conversation drifted toward dark and numerous hypotheses, perhaps the girl, obsessed enough to resort to forbidden means, or the parents, in some political maneuver to weaken the Dessendres by targeting one of their own. You studied Cléa’s and Alicia’s faces, silent worry for one, burning anger for the other. Cléa took the brooch and tucked it into the small pocket on her shirt, right over her chest.
“We’ll talk to our parents,” she said in a low but sharp voice, “But… we can’t stay any longer.”
They’d already been gone far too long. And tonight, a dinner awaited them… with the suspect family. Goodbyes were heavy, punctuated by brief yet sincere embraces. Cléa and Alicia held you tight, as if to anchor you more firmly before leaving you to your own silence.
Left alone with your friend, she turned to you, a bit hesitant, “Do you want me to stay with you for the night, or do you think you’ll be okay?” she offered.
You shook your head, “Thank you, but… I need to stay here. For the house. And… for myself. I need… a little solitude.”
She understood and didn’t insist. One last hug, one last fragment of human warmth, then she made her way toward the tower of the library, her bedroom.
Silence fell. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that amplifies every heartbeat, every intrusive thought. You went back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Emotions clashed in your mind, drowning out reason. Verso. Always Verso.
The questions spun, sharp-edged. Did he think about you at all? Or had he erased you completely, brushed you aside as though you’d never been part of his life? Would you be able to pull him out of this mess? And if you failed, what would become of him?
A distant rumble split the air, heralding the rain that soon came crashing against the windows in a steady drumbeat. Lightning flared, casting flashes of light across the room, revealing, for an instant, your reflection in the glass, drawn features, reddened eyes. You let the tears flow in silence, until exhaustion overcame you.
A dull thud against the door made you jolt.
You blinked, still groggy, eyelids heavy from sleep and dried tears. For a second, you thought you’d imagined it… until a second knock came, more insistent. The wall clock told you it was far too late for a visitor. The weather hadn’t improved, if anything, it had worsened. Rain battered harder against the windows, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder, echoing your own heart.
Your feet slid on the cold parquet as you rose, rubbing your eyes with a clumsy hand. Each step toward the door seemed to thicken the air, a strange weight pressing on you, as if you already knew what awaited on the other side. Your hand hesitated on the handle… then you opened it. And the world narrowed.
Verso. Standing on the threshold, drenched to the bone. Dark strands plastered to his forehead, water trailing cold paths along his temples and neck. His clothes clung to his skin, the rain-darkened fabric making the pallor of his face almost ghostly. His lips trembled, not just from the cold, and beneath his eyes, two hollow shadows spoke of sleepless nights and thoughts far too heavy. And most of all… his eyes. Empty. Extinguished. As though some part of him had been ripped away and he stood there only by reflex, a body searching for shelter. Cléa’s and Alicia’s words struck you full force, “This isn’t sadness… it’s darker than that.”
His name died on your lips, replaced by a gasp of surprise. You didn’t even have time to form a question. Verso stepped forward, and everything shifted.
His arms closed around you with almost brutal force. The heat of his body clashed violently with the damp chill clinging to his clothes. He buried his head against your shoulder, his warm breath brushing your skin. An unyielding grip, as if he feared you might vanish the moment his hands loosened.
The ache in your ribs was nothing compared to what you felt in the tension of his muscles. His shoulders jerked in uneven bursts, silent sobs at first, then more audible, cracking the mask you had always known. And there, in that embrace, the memories came rushing back.
The carousel. Cléa laughing loudly as she spun the ride, the world whirling around you at dizzying speed. Verso, seated beside you, had pulled you close, one arm firmly around your waist, his body shielding you from the centrifugal force. That day, his grip said “I’ll protect you.”
The willow tree. Long green branches forming a natural curtain. Sitting on his lap, your back pressed to his chest, his arms encircling your waist. His calm breathing in your neck, his voice low, self-assured. He was the one in control, the one who decided when to draw close, when to tease, when to throw you off balance.
Today, everything was reversed. He wasn’t protecting you. He was seeking refuge. No calculated move, no sly smile. Just raw need, desperate, almost vital. Just a man, lost, who needed you.
You slid one arm around his shoulders, the other hand finding its way to his damp hair. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, your lips murmuring soothing fragments into his ear, “It’s okay… it’s going to be okay… I’m here…”
Time lost all meaning. Minutes, perhaps more. The rain continued to run over your bodies, but neither of you seemed willing to break the embrace.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His red, swollen eyes locked onto yours. Nothing hid the pain he carried, and in that instant, you knew, every suspicion, every phrase you’d turned over in your mind in recent days crumbled before the raw truth, he was hurting, and he had never willingly wanted to distance himself from you.
His voice cracked suddenly, “I’m sorry… so sorry… I missed you so much. I… I didn’t mean to…”
The simple words struck like a hot blade. But he didn’t need to explain, you already knew the truth. There was no need to drag up the past days. You cupped his face, warm palms against his cold skin, wiping away his tears with gentle strokes. Your thumbs traced the features you thought you knew by heart, “I know…” you whispered, “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault. What matters is that you’re here.”
His height forced you onto your tiptoes. Your face inched closer to his, slowly, as though every centimeter mattered. Your lips pressed to his forehead, lingering there for several seconds. Then his temple. The corner of his eyes. The tip of his nose. One cheek. The other. And finally… the corner of his mouth.
A flash split the sky, illuminating the drop of water clinging to his lashes. You didn’t have time to think. In a sudden movement, your back hit the door with a dull thud. His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole your breath. Not a tentative sweetness, not a shy brush. Urgency. Claiming. As if he wanted you to feel, physically, the void your absence had left. His kiss was insistent, almost too much. His hands trembled slightly at your back, as if he feared you might vanish between breaths. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that sought not to seduce, but to reclaim lost time.
Once the shock passed, you responded. Your fingers clung to his damp neck, your lips matching his in a rhythm that soon became smoother, less desperate, yet no less intense. Rain drummed on the ground, on your shoulders, like a symphony marking every second of this stolen moment. Amid the chaos of your bodies pressed together, one certainty rose, this wasn’t the end. Not yet.
Rain fell hard, in thick curtains that pelted your shoulders, your hair, your faces. The heavy drops burst cold against your skin, soaking your clothes until they clung to your bodies. The world disappeared behind that liquid veil, as if the downpour had decided to isolate you from the rest of the universe.
Your lips stayed locked to his with a heat that defied the icy bite of the weather. Every movement of his mouth against yours was urgent, hungry, as if both of you were trying to etch this moment into your very flesh before something, or someone, tore it away. Rain streamed down your faces, mingled with your breaths, slipped onto your tongues when your lips parted.
It was the first time. The very first time your mouths met. No restraint, no detour, in a gesture that swept away every barrier and burned away all doubt. And this first time had that singular taste no other could imitate, a blend of surrender, desire, and an almost painful relief, like the breaking of a silent wait that had been buried for weeks.
His hands tightened on you, not to trap you, but to hold on, as if afraid the wind and rain would carry you far from him. You felt every muscle in his arms tense, every ragged breath vibrating against your chest. His uneven breathing mixed with yours, warming your skin despite the cold, waterlogged air.
Time blurred, drowned in the rumble of distant thunder. Seconds? Hours? Impossible to tell. Finally, he drew back, his lips slowly parting from yours, as if he had to fight himself to end the kiss.
Your foreheads stayed close, short breaths colliding, creating small pockets of warmth in the damp chill. His eyes clung to yours with an almost painful intensity. The water trailing down his lashes mingled with the rain on your skin, but you knew, from their glimmer, that it wasn’t only rain shining there.
He searched your face, looking for something, a silent answer. An admission. To know if you regretted this kiss, or if you wanted more. And in that wordless exchange, your eyes had already answered his. No retreat. No shadow of doubt.
Without a word, he leaned in again. This time, the kiss shed all urgency. His lips found yours with a slowness almost solemn, making your heart pound even harder. It was soft, tender, yet no less passionate. A deeper passion, contained yet powerful, speaking of everything neither of you had dared to put into words.
One of his hands slid up your back to the base of your neck, fingers curling around a soaked lock of hair. The other drifted from the middle of your back to your hip, his palm fitting the curve, as if to remind you he still held you. His lips moved with the precision of someone who wanted to savor every nuance, remember every second. You responded with equal intensity, your fingers tangling in his rain-heavy hair. Your hands pulled him even closer, ignoring the cold that bit into you both. Each kiss made the rest of the world dissolve behind the curtain of pouring rain.
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time, but you paid it no mind. Nothing existed but him, you, and that invisible thread drawing tighter with every touch.
His lips lingered against yours for a moment, then parted just enough for his warm breath to brush your mouth. No words were needed. You understood. This kiss was more than a gesture, it was a confession, a promise, and perhaps even the beginning of something you hadn’t dared hope for. And you, standing there in the driving rain, knew this moment would be carved into you forever.
summary: for all his life Verso never lived the life he so desperately wished for, never fitting into the perfect puzzle of his painter family, but things are about to change when a letter arrives on a sunny spring morning..
pairings: real!Verso x fem!OC
So yeah, this is the start of a whole new fic I am cooking for you. Expect some drama, laughter and most of all: love.
Enjoy :)
It was a calm, soft and sunny spring morning. The Dessendre family was enjoying their breakfast in a peaceful silence when the door bell rang. "I'll get it" Clea, the oldest sister, announced with an eyeroll when no one made the effort to answer the door.
A moment later she returned to the table, holding an envelope in her hand.
"What is it?" Alicia, the youngest of the three siblings, asked curiously, eyeing the envelope with a twinkle in her eyes. "It's actually..for you" Clea said meaningfully, pointing the envelope towards her younger brother, Verso, who looked around the table nervously when everyone was looking at him with a questioning look.
He cleared his throat audably and took the envelope to open it carefully, all eyes on him while he was doing so. He started reading with an unreadable expression on his face "So? What is it about?" Aline, the mother of the family, asked with a hint of impatience. He handed her the letter wordlessly and she started reading it out loud "Dear Monsieur Dessendre, we are delighted to welcome you in our conservatory as a new student. Your apply has been by all means very inspirational and sparked our interest in you immediately and we look forward to see you in a month from now to start your piano studies. Sincerely, Artur Lefevre, Conservatory Director."
Everyone fell silent, a tension building in the air that was almost palpable. "You applied to the conservatory without our knowledge?" Aline asked and Verso could feel his mouth go dry "I..yes I did.." he said quietly, his gaze falling to his folded hands on his lap. "Why didn't you just tell us, son?" Renoir, the father, asked with a calm voice, yet the angered undertone noticable for everyone. Verso took a deep breath, steadying his posture to look into his father's eyes, gathering all the courage he could "Because I know that you would have tried to talk me out of it. Because you see no sense in my love for music. Because I was born in a family of painters and you would expect me to become no less or more than that. Because I..I finally want to start a life of my own and follow my dreams.." he said the last part very quietly. "And you thought we would not support you nontheless?" Aline spoke up, causing Verso to look into his mother's eyes. She was smiling at him, actually smiling.
Verso could feel cunfusion coming up inside of him "But I..you always said the study of music would be fruitless and that I am a painter and.." he stumbled over his own words. "I think it's wonderful!" Alicia exclaimed happily, causing Renoir to smile warmly at her. She was, without a doubt, his favorite. Aline cleared her throat "And how do you get there everyday? The conservatory is miles away from here" she said with a light twinkle in her eyes "I actually thought of that too already and there is in fact a small apartment above a boulangerie that is close by, I could move in anytime I want" Verso said quietly, half expecting his mother to disagree with his idea. She sighed "I see you are capable of taking matters into your own hand" she said with an almost sad looking smile and Alicia sobbed "So your are leaving us?" she asked with a tearful look and Verso smiled softly at her "Hey, it's not like I am gone forever and you can always come and visit me" he said and the red-haired girl beamed happily at him at that.
"So, in a month from now then?" Renoir asked calmly and Verso nodded "So be it then,,if that is what you truly wish" he said and for a moment Verso thought he could see tears glistening in the older man's eyes.
They continued their breakfast and soon the three siblings started chattering excitedly about decorating Verso's apartment and if he wanted to take his piano with him "Of course I will, how else am I to keep up with the other students outside the lessons?" he said with a smirk, causing them to fall into a fit of giggles. Aline looked at Renoir with an unreadable expression and he took one of her hands in his "I know" he simply said and she smiled sadly at him.
In the evening Verso was sitting on his bed, gazing into the nightsky through one of his bedroom windows. He had expected more resistance from his parents, expected that they would deny him his wish as they had done so many times before. From a young age on he had been different from everyone else. Never really fitting into the picture of the perfect and highly respected family of painters. He sighed and closed his eyes, a light smile spreading over his face.
In a month from now, he thought, his life would finally change, he would finally start to follow his dreams and become what he so desperately wished to be for all his life.
summary: falling for you was never part of Verso's plan.
but when do things ever go as planned?
warnings: nsfw; descriptions of intimate acts *cough* ; also some fluff
Enjoy :)
It started slowly, silently, almost not noticable. He caught himself more and more often looking at you for longer than necessary and god forbid if you looked back and even smiled at him.
When he walked by it happened more and more often that his hand would graze yours and even if only for the briefest of moments. He held your hand longer than necessary when helping you up, steadied you by the small of your back when you stumbled, more intensely than he needed to.
It all started to go downhill when you barely escaped an attack by Nevrons. He threw himself in front of you, taking any strike he could much to your dismay.
"You know my wounds heal. Yours don't" he said almost pleadingly "Doesn't mean you have to throw yourself in front of any danger I encounter..because it doesn't mean I don't care about you, you idiot". You didn't talk to him for three days after that.
It was after a long day of strolling and fighting through the continent that you found yourselves at camp. The mood was gloomy, to say the least.
Sciel sighed audibly "Hey guys I am going to bed, I am absolutely wrecked" she said and stretched with a yawn looking at Lune with a grin. The two of them had recently become a little more than close. "Guess that's my call" Lune said with a smile and followed Sciel to their sleeping spot.
Maelle let out a hearty yawn "Might be better to call it a day. You coming too, y/n?"
You shook your head with a smile "I am by all means not tired yet, so go ahead, I'll join you later". Maelle just shrugged her shoulders and trotted away to her bedroll. "Teenagers" you thought to yourself with a chuckle.
Monoco cleared his throat audably "I'll be on my watch with Esquie" he said.
With everyone gone you and Verso sat by the fire, both of you lost in thought. He was the first to finally break the silence "Y/n.." he began and you looked at him with a sigh "Verso..if this is about what happened lately, then leave it..I will not discuss that again" you said "If you just hear me out.." "Then what? You will tell me again how you're basically immortal and I am just..ah forget it" you said and got up "You're just what, y/n?" Verso retorted, this time a serious expression on his face. You gulped and sighed, not daring to look into his face "I am just yet another expeditioner that is destined to die anyways.." you said so quietly you would have sworn he coulnd't have heard you. But he did. You could feel your eyes filling with tears and your body betraying you, letting the first tear roll down your face.
You let your eyes stay closed when you suddenly felt the most gentle of touches on your face. You looked up only to be met with Verso's stormy gaze "You really are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my life" he said quitely, almost gently.
Time seemed to stand still in that moment because you couldn't tell for how long you kept staring at each other. "You're one to talk about stubborness" you said with a light chuckle and if you didn't know you were in fact still alive you would have died on the spot by the way he smiled at you.
He took one of your hands between his warm palms "You are so much more than just another expeditioner y/n.." he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours and you could feel yourself getting lost in his ocean-like eyes. "I am no one special.." you said, feeling your lower lip tremble slightly, your body betraying you once again. Verso kept holding your hand in one of his and with the other he wiped your tear away with the most gentle of touches. You shuddered. "What do I have to do to show you how special you are to me y/n?" he asked with a light smile. You felt completely dumbfolded in that moment, no words left your lips.
"I just..I don't know..I am..I.." you felt yourself stumbling over your words, your gaze dropping to your joined hands. "Hey, look at me" he said quietly and you obliged. Once again you felt yourself getting lost in his eyes, a light breeze tousling his hair. He looked breathtakingly beautiful in that moment and you could feel your face heating up. His thumb gently stroked your cheek down to your chin, holding your face in place and forcing you to keep looking at him "I ask you again. What do I have to do to show you how special you are to me y/n?" he said with an almost husky tone and you could feel his face getting closer to yours until your noses slightly bumped into one another. Another shudder ran through you. "Verso..please.." "Say it y/n" "Please..kiss me". And then your lips crashed.
The moment his lips were on yours he pulled you towards him, your body pressing against his and your hands got lost in his hair. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a half-growl and your body shuddered once more. After a while you parted just to come up for air, only to join into another passionate kiss moments later. Your body stayed pressed flush against him, your hands lightly scratching the nape of his neck, his hands wandering down your waist to your butt. And that was when you felt it. Felt him. His hips pressing against yours you, without a doubt, felt the effect you had on him and you couldn't help but grinning against his lips. "Having fun?" he asked with an half-amused tone and you could see the twinkle in his eyes when you looked at him.
"Is that one of your knives in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" you said jokingly and he couldn't help but laugh at your stupid joke. "Why don't you find out?" he said with that husky tone once more and you felt your mouth getting dry. A nervous laughter left your lips and he used the opportunity to crash his lips into yours once more, his tongue finding yours with slow, deliberate strokes. The softest of moans left your lips and now it was his turn to grin against your lips. "Having fun?" you echoed his words from earlier and before you knew it his hands slid to the back of your thighs, lifting you up like you were as light as a feather and you let out a yelp followed by a giggle. "Tell me you want this as much as I do y/n..tell me you want ME as much as I want you.." he said so quietly that you almost missed it. His eyes looked at you with a mixture of lust and an undeniable hint of insecurity. "Verso.." you said softly and stroked his cheek with the tips of your fingers, his eyes closing to your gentle touch. "I want it..I want you..please.
That was all he needed to hear. In the next moment you felt yourself sinking to the ground with him, causing him to lay on top of you. He started to kiss your cheeks each, then the corners of your mouth and your chin, letting his mouth wander lower to your collarbones, sucking lightly on your sensitive skin until he left a mark. His lips wandered further to the top of your breasts, the fabric of your expeditioners uniform marking a border he yet had to cross. He looked at you with parted lips, his eyes glazed over with desire, a silent ask for permission. You bit your lower lip and nodded at him. He slowly, almost agonizingly slow, started to undress you until you were laying bare before him "You are so beautiful y/n.." he said dreamily, leaving kisses on both of your breasts causing them to perk into the chill night air. His lips found your ribs, your stomach until he ended right where you needed him most.
With shaky hands he finally undressed himself and you couldn't help the shudder that went through your body once more. He grabbed one of your thighs and lowered himself to shower the inside of your thigh with kisses, earning gasps from you. He repeated the same thing with your other thigh. His face stopped in front of your most sensitive area and he silently, almost pleadingly looked at you for permission "Verso please.." "Tell me what you need, mon amour" he said, his hot breath fanning your sex, leaving you shuddering in anticipation. "I need to feel you..please. And oh how you did feel him. His tongue dragged through your folds in an almost brutally slow stroke, tasting you like he was a man starving. When his lips finally closed around your bundle of nerves you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips and you pressed the back of your hand against your mouth just for it to be dragged away by him with an almost-growl "Don't..I want to hear you when I make you feel good" he said and your breath hitched in your throat when he continued eating you out.
You could feel the heat building up in your lower abdomen, the pressure between your legs becoming almost unbearable. And then you collapsed with a moan and for a moment you could see stars. "God..you are so good at this" you said and a proud, almost cocky smile plastered his face. He was definitely enjoying the praise.
He crawled on top of you and you could feel his hardened member against your inner thigh, causing that delicious pressure to build up in your lower belly again. "I am going to make you feel so much better even, mon amour.." he said huskily and lined himself up with your entrance "Please.." you said with a breathy voice and he pushed himself in, splitting you open, the burn of your walls widening felt amost painful and yet filled you with bliss at the same time. He growled lowly and took a moment to adjust himself before finally starting to move.
Your legs wrapped around his waist causing him to sink into you even deeper which stole a moan from the both of you. His pace started to quicken and the pressure in your lower abdomen started to build up again. You both were a moaning, sweaty mess. "S..so good, you feel so good.." you moaned, knowing fully well how the praise was making him feel. His pace grew impossibly fast and you started to see stars again when your orgasm finally washed over you once again. He rode you through your high, just to release himself inside of you with a low moan moments later, coating your inner walls.
He stayed on top of you, his head reasting on your chest, both of you panting, you could feel his member softening inside of you but he did not pull out yet, wanting to stay like this a moment longer to stay close to you, looking at you with shining eyes "Are you okay? Was it allright?" he asked in an almost concerned tone and you smiled softly "It was perfect" you said and he shot you that breathtaking smile of his once again causing your skin to tingle. "You know..if throwing myself in front of Nevrons was all I had to do to get you in bed with me, I would have done it earlier" he said with a cocky grin and you smacked his arm with a laugh "Okay okay ow, sorry..just a joke" he said with a chuckle and you rolled your eyes playfully.
"Honestly though..I would do it all again if I had to.." he said with a more serious tone now and you sighed "I know..and I would scold you for it again". He grinned "If that means having you in my arms again at night, I won't mind". You couldn't help but laugh at his behaviour "You are impossible, you know that?" you said with a shake of your head but the grin did not leave your face "Oh I know..and you enjoy it" he said and you sighed "I do..and many other things too" "Oh yeah?..I might know one of these things" he said with a cheeky grin and you could feel him hardening inside of you again. "You're such an idiot" you laughed, ignoring the heat in your lower belly "I am. But I am your idiot" he said with a smile and you pulled him into a passionate kiss.
After all, you still had all night. And hopefully many more nights to come.
Summary : You can't get that image out of your head. Verso? In someone else's arms? After everything you shared together? Were his sweet words and little nicknames nothing but empty air to him?
Author's note : I hope that with this... you'll forgive me for the angst of the previous chapter.
chapter V
The days began to pass without flavor, like a fine rain that never stopped. It was impossible to say when the first drop had fallen, but you could feel it had already soaked you to the bone. No word, no message, not even that discreet sign that used to be enough to make you smile foolishly. Nothing. As if the invisible thread that connected you had been severed clean. As if everything had been swallowed by a heavy, black ocean.
Usually welcoming, the house now seemed to have tightened its walls. Each room echoed with a strange emptiness, an absence that made no sound but weighed on every one of your movements. The windows let in the light, but it warmed nothing, it merely rested there, pale and distant, like a veil over the furniture.
On the desk, the book lay open, within reach, heavy as a stone. It was your link, the place where you had deposited every thought you hadn’t dared say aloud. The pages, scratched with ink, looked like a battlefield lost before it began. The first lines breathed the innocence of beginnings, then grew more intimate, more intense. Nicknames, compliments, sweet words from both you and him… and then, nothing. Just you. Your little daily hellos, your questions about his day, then your worries, your fear, your sadness. Sentences cut off in mid-thought, as if the thought itself had stumbled. Cross-outs piled up, thick and dark, until they swallowed everything under the heaviness of lines pressed too hard.
Ironically, that little flame, the one you had felt only once before, in front of a painting by Verso, chose to awaken now. The gut-deep urge to write, the kind that feeds writers’ minds and gives them strength and imagination… it had sprung up overnight, without warning. It appeared when you were at your lowest. As if you were made to write only sad poems, depressing prose, as if your flame refused you happiness and demanded that you draw your inspiration from a broken heart. Before, you’d never had this energy, this need to blacken entire pages. Now it finally burned… but with a cold, cutting fire. Cruel irony, this pain became your only fuel, and you couldn’t tell whether it was saving you or finishing you off.
Each word fell onto the page like a drop of black ink. The verses followed one another, but they didn’t sing. They wept, they choked. And you kept writing, as if engraving this pain could make it disappear. The paper hurt under your hand, the cross-outs became scars. You weren’t writing to remember, but so you wouldn’t completely lose yourself.
Always the same question, nagging, beating in your head like a clock that strikes only one hour, what had gone wrong? A word, a phrase misunderstood? Maybe everything had gone too fast and he had gotten scared. Maybe he regretted trusting you, letting you into his life. Or maybe none of it had ever mattered to him, and he had simply drawn a line, dismissing this encounter as a fleeting curiosity quickly forgotten. Worse still, maybe you had made it all up, misread his words, and been the only one to hope, the only one to get attached, the only one to see a future in each little gesture that meant nothing to him. Then maybe there was no one to blame but yourself.
Night brought no respite. Dreams, cruel, brought him back to you with unbearable precision. You relived moments that, by morning, felt unreal, the lines of his face, the light in his eyes… all returned with almost painful clarity, as if your mind wanted to freeze what was already fading. Each time you woke, your hand would almost reach out, your chest tight, your throat knotted… but there was only emptiness. And that silence. Always that silence.
The hours lost all shape. Sometimes you thought you heard a familiar step in the street, hoping he’d come to your door, even though he didn’t know where you lived. Sometimes you thought you caught his scent, but it was only the wind playing with your memory. Time moved on without caring about you, dragging behind it the bitter taste of longing and uncertainty.
One day, the clear chime of a bell cut through the stifling air of your house, snapping you out of your thoughts as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you. With your parents gone for the week, you weren’t expecting anyone. Feet heavy, you left your room. The floorboards creaked more than usual, until the hall rug muffled the sound. A few days earlier, you might have hoped to find Verso behind the door… but you’d stopped believing in that kind of miracle. When you opened it, you froze for a moment, your friend, the one who had given you the two books. No indiscreet questions, no reproach. Just a smile, thin but sincere, like a window cracked open in the stale air of these last days.
The first few minutes passed in hesitant exchanges, the words seeming rusty. Yet her presence warmed something in you. You talked about everything and nothing, skirting the subject that gnawed at you. A few awkward but genuine jokes finally drew a clear, fragile laugh from you, as if your heart had forgotten how to make that sound in recent days.
The idea of an outing slipped in almost without you noticing. The big bookstore, with its towering shelves and smell of dust, seemed like the perfect refuge… but she suggested instead that you visit the adjoining garden, both a reading space and a resting place for students.
The fresh air on your face nearly drew a sigh from you. The cobblestones echoed under your steps, and little by little your breathing grew calmer. You clung to her voice like one clings to a railing over a void. You expected nothing from the day except to forget, or at least to push away, what hurt you.
And then, without warning, the world slowed. On the other side of the street, a familiar silhouette. Light slid over his hair, over the line of his shoulders. Verso. Framed by his family, like a scene carefully painted. The sounds around you faded, leaving only your eyes meeting his… or perhaps it was an illusion.
One second was enough to steal your breath. Your chest tightened, your hands trembled. You didn’t know whether his family hadn’t noticed you, or whether you’d simply erased their presence to see only him. Well… him, and the girl you didn’t know, nestled against him with an intimacy that struck you like a blade. No words, just that frozen look and a silence heavier than the crowd.
Your throat closed, your vision blurred with tears, you stayed frozen. Memories overlaid the scene, dragging you back to all those phrases, those gestures that suddenly made no sense. That embrace that wasn’t yours. Their arms seemed made to find each other that way, the fingers of that stranger seemed made for him, drawn to rest on his shoulders. And your mind etched the image forever. Your feet refused to move, as if leaving meant abandoning him for good.
The voice of your friend pulled you from the trance. She was calling you from the hall, dragging you brutally back to the present. Without thinking, you crossed the street. The door closed behind you, cutting Verso from your sight. Cutting you from his sight.
A few seconds passed in light silence. Suddenly, you felt as if she could read your mind, you were about to tell her not to worry, maybe even to pretend that everything was fine… but she cut you off, as if she truly could read your thoughts, “No need to lie, or explain. I read it all on your face.”
A dry, nervous, slightly ridiculous laugh escaped you, “It’s stupid, I…” the sentence died on its own.
“Stop,” her voice was firm, but not harsh, “All men are jerks.” a shrug accompanied the line, “Come, I’ll show you something. It’ll take your mind off things… I hope.”
The fresh garden air seeped in, but didn’t dissolve the weight clinging to your chest. Your steps followed hers almost mechanically. Every movement echoed in your tired body, and your mind refused to let go of that image looping endlessly, that moment on his lap. The warmth of his body against your back, the shiver of closeness, that intimacy that had felt real. How could it have meant nothing? How could he erase it so easily? The scene replayed again and again, each time digging deeper, like a splinter you can’t pull out.
Her voice barely reached you through the inner fog, “I got permission to do some gardening here,” she said, running her hand along a small fence, “It wasn’t easy… but I wanted to, ever since the academician who took me under her wing told me she loved writing surrounded by plants, it made me want to do the same!”
You listened without really listening. The words were there, but they didn’t pass through you. They bounced somewhere inside and fell inert. Yet your gaze slid over the place. The stone-paved ground, the splashes of color from the flowerbeds, the light filtering between the branches. It was beautiful. Objectively beautiful. And it struck you how unable you were to enjoy it. In another state, you would have stopped to take a deep breath, to let the image imprint itself. Now, everything felt distant, unreachable, as if seen through glass.
Your eyes finally caught on a detail, under a large tree, a swing bench. A wooden seat suspended just above the ground, held by thick ropes adorned with small midnight-blue flowers. Flower beds encircled the trunk, a stone path led to the spot like a refuge. From there, you could overlook part of the garden, see everything… or avoid it all.
The contrast tightened your chest even more. The rest of the garden was neat, perfectly trimmed, symmetrical to obsession. Here, it was calculated disorder, harmony that didn’t try to please. It should have soothed you. It only underlined how dissonant everything in you felt.
Her words stopped. You could feel her watching you. She understood. Her eyes widened, sparkling, as if an idea had just been born, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
And she left, first walking, then running. Silence fell again. You stood still for a moment, staring at the suspended seat. Your fingers touched the wood, cold under your skin. The ropes creaked slightly as you tested their strength. Finally, you sat. The backrest received you gently, but it did nothing to ease the burning in your chest.
A slight swaying began. The regular creak matched your uneven breathing. The air smelled of cut grass, damp earth… but nothing pierced the barrier. Each movement of the swing reminded you of that other embrace, that body you had nestled against, convinced it meant something. Your hands on your knees clenched. Your jaw tightened. Your eyes stung. You wanted to cry, to scream, to let it all out. But nothing came, as if even the pain was trapped inside, compressed until it was suffocating.
Your gaze drifted to the sky, gray and low, as if it weighed on your shoulders. Your thoughts drifted from Verso to yourself, adrift without control. You thought of your friend, who once had been as shy as you, almost invisible… Now she brimmed with life, moving forward with a future that seemed already mapped, fed by her passions, her hobbies.
You had nothing. Thinking back over your life, you realized it all seemed blurry, indistinct, as if it had only truly begun the day you met Verso. As if everything before him had been erased, revealing how hollow your existence had been until then.
Before Verso, there had been no real friendships. No burning memories, no strong bonds. Nothing tangible. Unlike them, you had no passion, no hobby you truly cared about, nothing that made you unique. And the more you thought about it, the more the truth sank in like a blade, there was nothing that made your life interesting. Nothing that made you interesting. Verso was a talented painter who loved the piano. Your friend, a gifted writer passionate about astrology and the stars, discovering new hobbies every day to color her life.
The swing’s gentle rocking brought no comfort. Every movement seemed instead to emphasize the emptiness dragging you downward, as if the ropes weren’t there to hold you but to keep you suspended above a void. The garden around you, calm as it was, seemed distant, almost foreign. Voices in the distance mingled with the rustling leaves, forming a monotonous background with no relief.
The smells of flowers and damp earth drifted toward you but found no hold. Your body was there, seated, swaying gently, but your mind remained locked behind an invisible wall. Everything in you screamed to breathe, to relax… but nothing broke through. The air came in, left, without ever dislodging the hard knot in your chest.
Whenever your thoughts tried to cling to something neutral, they circled back to him. Verso, and that scene looping like an old, worn film. His face, his gaze, that past closeness… and the brutality of the absence now. You wished the image would fade, lose its sharpness, but instead, it grew clearer with each replay, as if your memory were intent on torturing you. Your fingers tightened on the seat’s edge. You felt the bite of the wood against your palm, a hard, rough contact, almost painful. You caught yourself gripping harder, searching in that physical sensation for a way to eclipse, even briefly, the mental pain. In vain. The burn remained.
Time stretched, slow and thick. You didn’t know if you’d been there for a minute or ten. The heavy sky seemed to watch you, a silent accomplice to your state. And you stayed frozen, with that weight in your stomach, that urge to cry with no outlet, that urge to scream drowning before reaching your lips.
The sound of hurried footsteps came over the stone tiles. Your head turned slowly, as if your muscles hesitated to obey. Your friend reappeared, slightly out of breath, a small package clutched to her chest. She approached without a word, climbed onto the swing, and sat facing you. The ropes groaned in protest, but the seat stayed perfectly steady.
“Here,” she said at last, pulling out a deck of worn-patterned cards, “I thought… maybe this could help you put words to what you’re feeling.”
Your fingers hesitated before brushing the deck, “Tarot?” the voice that came from your throat was low, almost strangled, “You know I don’t believe in that stuff…”
She nodded, “I know, a lot of people are skeptical… but sometimes, it just feels good to hear something, even if it’s symbolic.”
You didn’t answer. The silence was heavy, but not empty. There was the slow, almost imperceptible swaying that matched your breathing. Finally, she began shuffling the cards with precise movements, as if that simple act could recentre everything around her.
You drew three cards and placed them between you, their colors and symbols catching the light filtering through the leaves above.
She pointed to the first, “Three of Swords,” her eyes lifted to yours, cautious, “It speaks of betrayal, heartbreak… emotional pain.” her voice softened to almost a whisper, “As if something or someone had pierced you so deeply you don’t know if you can stitch the wound closed.”
The card seemed to vibrate under your gaze. You said nothing, but your fingers tightened slightly on the swing’s wooden edge.
The second card slid toward you, “The Moon,” she took a breath before continuing, “Illusions… uncertainty… hidden things. It’s that feeling that everything is blurry, that you don’t know what’s true or not… that your own memories betray you.”
A bitter laugh escaped you, dry and joyless, “Blurry, that’s for sure…” you looked away, as if staring at the card could pull you inside it.
She placed the last, “Eight of Swords,” she gave you a few seconds to observe the drawing, a figure surrounded by swords, eyes blindfolded, “A feeling of imprisonment. Mental blockage. As if you knew there was a way out… but you couldn’t see it.”
Your lips trembled, and you murmured, “That’s… exactly it.”
She crossed her legs on the swing, leaning slightly toward you, “Listen… you don’t have to tell me everything. But I want you to know you’re not alone. And even if today it feels like everything is over, that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way.” with tenderness, she placed a hand on your shoulder, the gesture simple, but warm and reassuring, “It’ll get better, sooner or later. It might take days or months, but I promise it’ll get better.”
You lowered your eyes to the cards, letting them fill the space between you like an imperfect mirror of your state. The swing kept swaying gently, and for a moment you felt that if it stopped, everything else around you would stop too.
A shiver passed through the garden. At first, it was just a subtle change in the air, almost imperceptible, like a vibration. Then, one figure stood up, followed by another, and the movement spread. Conversations broke off, benches emptied. The first hurried steps echoed on the stone tiles, quickly followed by more, louder ones. In seconds, the place lost its calm. Glances met, questioning, but everyone seemed to agree on one thing, something was happening in the hall. Figures moved closer together, forming a compact stream toward the building. Voices mingled, too confused to make out words, but charged with a mix of irritation and curiosity.
The swing stopped moving. The movement of the crowd made the decision for you, there was no point staying here without knowing what was going on. Your steps followed your friend’s, jostled by shoulders and elbows as others pushed forward. The cold stone floor sent the sound of hurried steps back in chaotic echoes.
As the entrance drew nearer, a voice pierced the ambient buzz. Impossible to mistake the tone, Cléa. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she with the rest of her family? The tone was sharp, tense, more cutting than usual, as if each word were trying to force a way through. Between her phrases, others, even harsher, responded, the receptionist, clearly unwilling to let her through. The authoritative tone wasn’t feigned.
The snippets became clearer, an insistent request to find someone, a firm, repeated refusal. The truth was obvious, Cléa had no business being here. The Dessendre family, the painters, were persona non grata, and the fact that she’d crossed the threshold was either provocation or desperation. The persistence in her voice left no doubt it was the latter.
Pushing through the circle of onlookers took persistence. Shoulders bumped, murmurs swelled with each inch gained. Faces, closed-off, watched the scene like an indecent show. And suddenly, an opening. Cléa appeared, planted in front of the counter, hands flat on the wood, leaning slightly toward the receptionist. Far behind her, Alicia waited in the background, eyes watchful, her body almost pressed into the wall, as if she was afraid to stand too close to the reception desk.
A hesitant breath. Calling their names here was the same as putting yourself in danger, and suspicious eyes were already turning at the slightest odd movement. But doing nothing would have been worse, “Cléa? Alicia?”
The murmur turned into a tense silence. A few heads turned slowly, as if the moment was worth savoring. The two in question reacted immediately. Their faces lifted all at once, a flash of almost relief crossing their eyes. Without hesitation, they skirted the makeshift counter formed by the crowd and walked straight toward the voice.
Cléa was the first to speak, words rushing out, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, but this woman refused to let me in. It’s urgent. We need to talk, now.”
Her tone left no room for argument. No needless politeness, no detour, urgency was written in the set of her jaw, in the tension of her hands, in the worried look of her little sister, usually so quick to smile.
A prickling settled on the back of your neck. The stares around you weighed like an invisible fire. The air felt denser, saturated with silent hostility. Luckily, most people were too busy being scandalized at the presence of a painter here to pay attention to the exchange.
A quick gesture toward the exit invited the other three to follow you. Bodies parted just enough to let you pass, with a deliberate slowness that radiated contempt. The faces seemed almost pleased to see the two painters leaving. In the distance, you could hear a faint, “Good riddance.” Outside air cut sharply through the muffled hum of the hall. The cobblestones echoed clearer, sharper sounds as the distance grew between you and the building.
The path you chose led to a safe place, away from prying ears, your home. Being so close brought a flicker of relief; just a few more minutes and you’d be somewhere you could speak without fear of being interrupted. Cléa, walking beside you, kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her jaw tight. Not a single word escaped her, as though every second spent on the way was wasted time. Behind you, the voices of your friend and Alicia intertwined in a lighter tone. Their natural bond seemed to weave itself effortlessly, their laughter punctuating the walk, a sharp contrast to the silent tension leading the way.
The walk passed in near silence. The air grew heavier with each step, as if the words Cléa held between her lips were pressing down on the atmosphere. Cobblestones slipped quickly beneath your feet, and the distance from the hall to your home vanished in minutes.
The key turned in the lock with a sharp click. The door gave way in a soft breath, letting in the coolness of a familiar interior, “Don’t bother taking off your shoes,” you said, pushing the door wider, “I’ll deal with the cleaning later.”
With your parents gone until the end of the week, there was no need for the usual caution. No detour to a bedroom was necessary; the living room would serve for the conversation. The space, bathed in soft light, held a kind of almost cold neutrality, as if it were still waiting to be warmed. Each of them took a seat. Your friend chose an armchair, Alicia settled onto the couch opposite the coffee table. Cléa, however, came straight to the seat beside you, deliberately closing the space between you. The closeness carried its own kind of raw tension. Your gaze instinctively shifted from Cléa to Alicia, as if trying to read what was at play. The air hung with waiting, thickened by silence.
Cléa was the one to break the fragile balance, “Something’s wrong with Verso. He’s not himself anymore.”
A breath escaped you, almost a laugh, but stripped of any humor. Your lips curved in a smile without warmth, “I saw him earlier… with a girl. He seemed fine. Very fine, actually.”
Your gaze drifted away, seeking refuge in the patterns of the rug. Your eyes fixed on the floor with almost painful intensity, as if avoiding the burn of direct eye contact.
A sudden movement. Cléa’s hands came up to frame your face, forcing your eyes back to hers in a sharp, almost jarring motion. Her grip wasn’t gentle, tightening your jaw and neck under the pressure, “Listen to me. He’s anything but fine. I don’t recognize him anymore. And believe me… he doesn’t recognize himself either.”
Her words dropped heavy, as if hammering each syllable into your skin, “You know how Verso is… He’s not the most sociable man, but he’s not antisocial or shy either. Every time we bicker, he tries to have the last word, to be sharper than me. Always a smile on his face, even a small one, every time he spent time with us, with family. Now… all of that’s gone. He barely speaks, and when he does, it’s curt, cut short. He avoids looking at people, like faces have turned into walls. Even the way he holds himself… it’s like everything’s too heavy on his shoulders…”
Cléa drew in a breath, her hands still anchored on either side of your face, “He always had this energy, that smile, ever since you met him, even when he was tired. Now it’s… like there’s nothing left behind his eyes. His words come out without warmth. He just stands there, frozen, absent even when he’s in the room. And that’s only when he bothers to leave his bedroom. And when he thinks no one’s looking… his expression is unrecognizable. It’s not sadness, not really… it’s darker than that.”
Her fingers eased slightly, but not enough to break the eye contact, “What you saw, that image in the street… it’s just a façade. And it’s costing him.”
Seconds stretched into hours, every invisible tick of the clock weighing down the air. Cléa’s eyes stayed locked on yours, trying to push something through the wall you’d unknowingly built. Then Alicia spoke, her voice softer but just as sharp, “He barely leaves his room anymore, eats less than before… and from the look of those dark circles, his nights can’t be much better.”
There was no melodrama in her tone for the sake of it; it was a cold, clear statement, and maybe that was what hurt the most. Every word sounded like another nail in a truth you didn’t want to face.
Alicia went on, her hands folded neatly on her knees, “Even our parents are worried. Today they had to meet the Head of the Writers’ Council. An important meeting, for both districts. They wanted to cancel, for Verso’s sake, to wait until he was better… but it was impossible.”
A brief silence followed, as if her words had opened a space no one dared to step into. Then Cléa’s face changed. A shadow passed over her eyes, an impossible-to-read mix of anger, suspicion… or doubt. Maybe all three at once. Her jaw tightened slightly before she continued, “This all… started not long ago. Not weeks. Not months. No… just a few days ago, right after that family of writers visited the manor. The very next day.”
Her words cracked through the air like a verdict. Cléa’s hands finally dropped from your face, but her gaze didn’t release you, “I don’t know what happened. I have no proof they’re responsible. But I’m certain of one thing… something’s wrong. And it’s not coming from him.”
Cléa and Alicia’s words hung heavy, branded into your mind like they’d been seared there. Each sentence found an echo in your memories, leaving an indelible mark. Your hands rested on your knees, not to restrain you, but to anchor you in this precise moment.
Maybe you didn’t know Verso as well as they did, or as his parents had all his life. But you knew him well enough to feel there was something false in the image he’d given on the street, in the way his sisters described his recent days, the change. The attitude, the presence, what he radiated… it didn’t match. Earlier, you’d been too far away. Too far to catch the nuances in his expression, too far to notice if there was, in the curve of his lips or the depth of his eyes, something betraying a crack. Maybe if you’d been closer… maybe you would have seen what Cléa and Alicia were describing.
Silence settled over the room, dense, almost tangible. Your gaze lost itself in some undefined point, and no one tried to pull you back. Not your friend, not Cléa, not Alicia. They stayed there, unmoving, patient, as if they knew the words they’d just spoken needed time to seep in, to take root before any answer could come.
Your thoughts clashed inside you. You didn’t know whether to feel a sort of relief or to sink deeper still. Relief, because maybe there was a chance, small, fragile, that what had happened between you wasn’t just an illusion. That his words, his compliments, that particular way he had of provoking you, holding onto you, making you smile… had been sincere. That it hadn’t been a game. That somewhere in his mind, even a tiny future had existed.
But there was also a crushing sadness, heavier still. Sadness for him, for the state he was in. Sadness for how you had reacted, running away. Turning your back on what he was going through. When he was standing at the edge of a cliff, you hadn’t reached for him. You’d let him slip further, swallowed by that bottomless pit, without even trying to throw him a rope so he could have a chance to climb out, to be saved. Guilt curled inside your chest, sharp. You blamed yourself. And the more you thought about it, the more the worry grew, twisting every single heartbeat.
A long silence stretched out, the kind that makes the air feel thicker. The information kept turning over in your mind, like a gear refusing to stop. And then, a memory snapped into place in your head like a sharp crack, the day that famous family of writers had visited the Dessendres… it was the very same day the scrolls had been stolen from the archive room. And the next day, Verso had begun to change.
Your gaze lifted to your friend, your expression more focused than you would have thought possible after everything you had just heard, “You think… it could be connected? The writers’ visit, the theft of the scrolls in the archive room… The two events line up too well for it to be just a coincidence.”
A brief silence, then a faint furrow of your friend’s brows, “We can’t be sure. But honestly… coincidences like that are rarely just guesses.”
A quick exchange passed between Cléa and Alicia. They seemed to understand each other with just a look, but it was Alicia who spoke, “The archive room… and those stories about scrolls… what exactly is it?”
It was true, you had forgotten that detail, even though it was important. Your friend straightened slightly, her tone heavier, “It’s a hidden place. A room only academicians and high-ranking people can access. It’s where we keep writings of old, forgotten, forbidden… and dangerous magic.”
Cléa raised an eyebrow, and your friend went on, “I know how to get in because my mentor is an academician. And… that other girl, she must know the way too. Daughter of the head of the Writers’ Council, you can imagine she has her own way in.”
“Dangerous how?” Cléa asked, arms crossed.
“Some spells require blood. And not just a drop. The more powerful the spell, the more it demands.”
the room seemed to grow colder. The hairs on your arms stood on end, even though you already knew this, the situation made the information harder to hear. But your friend wasn’t finished, “According to my mentor, the stolen spells are… specific. They’re love spells. One of them needs a love letter written with blood, which you burn with a red candle. Another… it’s a spell jar, you fill a jar with honey, drop in a piece of paper with your name written over the name of the person you want to attract… again, with blood.”
Cléa shook her head, jaw tight, “One coincidence too many. I don’t like the idea that someone might be trying to force Verso to fall in love with them.”
She paused, then, true to herself, added with a hint of irony, “And honestly… there are better choices than my brother. I don’t get why him in particular.”
You had stayed silent until now, absorbing every word, but that last comment brought a reply to your lips before you could stop it. Your head turned away to avoid Cléa’s gaze, she seemed to know you were about to respond, “He has his flaws, yes… but also his good points.”
A smirk tugged at Cléa’s lips, “Of course you’d defend him.”
The tension eased slightly, the atmosphere becoming a bit more breathable again. The discussion continued, calmer now, more measured. Soon, the conclusion was clear: they couldn’t accuse someone so influential without proof. That would only inflame the already unstable tensions between writers and painters. They’d have to be careful.
After several minutes of reflection and exchanged ideas, a plan began to take shape. You stood first, glancing at each of the three girls, “So, we’re agreed? Cléa draws everyone to the hall… while we slip away to search the archive room and see if we can find anything.”
Cléa rose as well, a faintly predatory smile on her lips, “Perfect. I was just dying to see that awful receptionist again.”
The afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, painting golden stripes across the cobblestones. The walk to the great library was made almost in silence, footsteps echoing softly against the tiles beneath your shoes. The warm air carried with it a scent of paper and dust that seemed to seep from the building itself.
Cléa took the lead without hesitation, her posture straight and confident, ready to play her part. She crossed the threshold with a determined step, and the three of you stayed outside, under the shade of an awning, waiting for the distraction to begin.
Alicia, beside you, kept glancing toward the entrance, as if measuring the time. There was a strange mixture in her eyes, a palpable tension, but also… an almost childlike excitement, “You know, if you want… you could go back to my place,” you whispered, voice deliberately low.
She shook her head immediately, arms crossed, “No. Not happening. He’s my brother. If I can do something to help Verso, I will.” her tone left no room for discussion.
A few minutes passed, the flow of passers-by slowly shifting into a more concentrated movement toward the library. Through the windows, you could make out a crowd gathering in the hall. Voices rose, confused, punctuated by snippets of sentences and overlapping whispers. The plan was working better than expected.
Your friend gave one last glance before murmuring, “This is it.”
The three of you crossed the threshold, blending into the atmosphere. No hurried steps, no suspicious behavior, just three readers among many. The crowded reception area held everyone’s attention, leaving the rest of the library nearly deserted. The aisles seemed wider. You cast a discreet glance toward Cléa, admiring her acting skills and composure. She clearly seemed to be enjoying herself.
Reaching a side door, almost hidden behind a row of tall shelves, your friend didn’t waste a second. She stepped up to a lantern fixed to the wall, gripped it firmly, and pulled it to the side. A heavy click sounded, followed by a sharp creak as part of the stone wall slowly pivoted. The opening revealed a narrow, muffled passage, breathing out the scent of ancient dust. The sound had been loud, metallic, but given the location, far from the reception desk and the main flow of people, it was unlikely anyone had heard it.
You exchanged glances, then stepped through. The archive room unfolded in all its vastness, an almost oppressive space, crammed with piles of wooden boxes overflowing with scrolls. The walls vanished behind shelves sagging under the weight of ancient manuscripts, so overloaded that some scrolls had been left abandoned in stacks on the floor. There wasn’t a single window here. The lanterns on the wall were your only guide, their flickering light dancing across the dust in the air.
Your steps slowed, measured. Every movement was careful to avoid bumping anything. The silence, broken only by the faint rustle of clothing, made the tension almost tangible.
Long minutes passed this way, scanning the shelves, leaning over certain boxes, never daring to touch directly. Then, a sharp clink.
As you stepped forward, your foot hit something, a small metallic object that rolled away and vanished beneath a massive piece of furniture. Heart pounding, you crouched, pressing one hand against the cold floor to slide yourself into the narrow gap. Your fingers searched in the shadows, brushing rough stone, until they met a smooth, cold surface.
The metal slid into your hand as you pulled it toward you. The light revealed a finely crafted golden brooch, its design reminiscent of a crest. You straightened at once, calling the others in a low but urgent voice.
Alicia and your friend drew near, their eyes widening at the sight of the object, “I’ve seen this before,” Alicia said, her voice vibrating, “The whole family wears one. The girl, her brother… and their parents too.”
The other investigator nodded slowly, “Yes. That’s right. I’ve seen the head of the Writers’ Council with this exact same brooch.”
The brooch turned between your fingers, catching a ray of light that made its engravings gleam, “So that means… whoever came here doesn’t have it on them anymore. And if we find out who’s missing theirs… we’ll know who it is.”
A heavy silence settled in, each of you letting the conclusion take root. It wasn’t absolute proof… but it was a much stronger lead than anything you’d had so far.
The stone wall closed with a muffled rumble, shutting the dusty scent of the archive room behind you. You felt as if a weight had settled in your chest, one that had nothing to do with the object itself, and everything to do with what it meant. The corridors swallowed you again, dark, almost oppressive. Every step seemed to echo louder than it should, every shadow seemed to stretch longer.
As you approached the hall, the murmur swelled like a rising tide. The crowd was still there, dense, huddled near the reception desk where an electric tension lingered in the air. Snatches of voices, sharp whispers, a palpable, unhealthy curiosity. You slipped into the stream of bodies, your gaze catching Cléa’s, stationed nearby. A slight nod, barely perceptible yet unmistakable, ordered you to keep walking.
You stepped out through the large doors, the outside air hitting your faces like a release.
A few minutes passed before Cléa joined you, her quick steps betraying her urgency. Once away from prying ears, you pulled the brooch from your pocket. It glimmered faintly under the pale afternoon light, revealing its delicate, almost arrogantly perfect details.
Cléa froze, her expression hardening into pure anger. Her jaw tightened, her eyes steeled, and she hissed between clenched teeth, “It’s one of theirs, no doubt about it.”
There was no room for argument. The brooch was far too distinctive to belong to anyone else. But one clue wasn’t enough. The culprit still slipped through their fingers.
The conversation drifted toward dark and numerous hypotheses, perhaps the girl, obsessed enough to resort to forbidden means, or the parents, in some political maneuver to weaken the Dessendres by targeting one of their own. You studied Cléa’s and Alicia’s faces, silent worry for one, burning anger for the other. Cléa took the brooch and tucked it into the small pocket on her shirt, right over her chest.
“We’ll talk to our parents,” she said in a low but sharp voice, “But… we can’t stay any longer.”
They’d already been gone far too long. And tonight, a dinner awaited them… with the suspect family. Goodbyes were heavy, punctuated by brief yet sincere embraces. Cléa and Alicia held you tight, as if to anchor you more firmly before leaving you to your own silence.
Left alone with your friend, she turned to you, a bit hesitant, “Do you want me to stay with you for the night, or do you think you’ll be okay?” she offered.
You shook your head, “Thank you, but… I need to stay here. For the house. And… for myself. I need… a little solitude.”
She understood and didn’t insist. One last hug, one last fragment of human warmth, then she made her way toward the tower of the library, her bedroom.
Silence fell. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that amplifies every heartbeat, every intrusive thought. You went back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Emotions clashed in your mind, drowning out reason. Verso. Always Verso.
The questions spun, sharp-edged. Did he think about you at all? Or had he erased you completely, brushed you aside as though you’d never been part of his life? Would you be able to pull him out of this mess? And if you failed, what would become of him?
A distant rumble split the air, heralding the rain that soon came crashing against the windows in a steady drumbeat. Lightning flared, casting flashes of light across the room, revealing, for an instant, your reflection in the glass, drawn features, reddened eyes. You let the tears flow in silence, until exhaustion overcame you.
A dull thud against the door made you jolt.
You blinked, still groggy, eyelids heavy from sleep and dried tears. For a second, you thought you’d imagined it… until a second knock came, more insistent. The wall clock told you it was far too late for a visitor. The weather hadn’t improved, if anything, it had worsened. Rain battered harder against the windows, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder, echoing your own heart.
Your feet slid on the cold parquet as you rose, rubbing your eyes with a clumsy hand. Each step toward the door seemed to thicken the air, a strange weight pressing on you, as if you already knew what awaited on the other side. Your hand hesitated on the handle… then you opened it. And the world narrowed.
Verso. Standing on the threshold, drenched to the bone. Dark strands plastered to his forehead, water trailing cold paths along his temples and neck. His clothes clung to his skin, the rain-darkened fabric making the pallor of his face almost ghostly. His lips trembled, not just from the cold, and beneath his eyes, two hollow shadows spoke of sleepless nights and thoughts far too heavy. And most of all… his eyes. Empty. Extinguished. As though some part of him had been ripped away and he stood there only by reflex, a body searching for shelter. Cléa’s and Alicia’s words struck you full force, “This isn’t sadness… it’s darker than that.”
His name died on your lips, replaced by a gasp of surprise. You didn’t even have time to form a question. Verso stepped forward, and everything shifted.
His arms closed around you with almost brutal force. The heat of his body clashed violently with the damp chill clinging to his clothes. He buried his head against your shoulder, his warm breath brushing your skin. An unyielding grip, as if he feared you might vanish the moment his hands loosened.
The ache in your ribs was nothing compared to what you felt in the tension of his muscles. His shoulders jerked in uneven bursts, silent sobs at first, then more audible, cracking the mask you had always known. And there, in that embrace, the memories came rushing back.
The carousel. Cléa laughing loudly as she spun the ride, the world whirling around you at dizzying speed. Verso, seated beside you, had pulled you close, one arm firmly around your waist, his body shielding you from the centrifugal force. That day, his grip said “I’ll protect you.”
The willow tree. Long green branches forming a natural curtain. Sitting on his lap, your back pressed to his chest, his arms encircling your waist. His calm breathing in your neck, his voice low, self-assured. He was the one in control, the one who decided when to draw close, when to tease, when to throw you off balance.
Today, everything was reversed. He wasn’t protecting you. He was seeking refuge. No calculated move, no sly smile. Just raw need, desperate, almost vital. Just a man, lost, who needed you.
You slid one arm around his shoulders, the other hand finding its way to his damp hair. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, your lips murmuring soothing fragments into his ear, “It’s okay… it’s going to be okay… I’m here…”
Time lost all meaning. Minutes, perhaps more. The rain continued to run over your bodies, but neither of you seemed willing to break the embrace.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His red, swollen eyes locked onto yours. Nothing hid the pain he carried, and in that instant, you knew, every suspicion, every phrase you’d turned over in your mind in recent days crumbled before the raw truth, he was hurting, and he had never willingly wanted to distance himself from you.
His voice cracked suddenly, “I’m sorry… so sorry… I missed you so much. I… I didn’t mean to…”
The simple words struck like a hot blade. But he didn’t need to explain, you already knew the truth. There was no need to drag up the past days. You cupped his face, warm palms against his cold skin, wiping away his tears with gentle strokes. Your thumbs traced the features you thought you knew by heart, “I know…” you whispered, “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault. What matters is that you’re here.”
His height forced you onto your tiptoes. Your face inched closer to his, slowly, as though every centimeter mattered. Your lips pressed to his forehead, lingering there for several seconds. Then his temple. The corner of his eyes. The tip of his nose. One cheek. The other. And finally… the corner of his mouth.
A flash split the sky, illuminating the drop of water clinging to his lashes. You didn’t have time to think. In a sudden movement, your back hit the door with a dull thud. His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole your breath. Not a tentative sweetness, not a shy brush. Urgency. Claiming. As if he wanted you to feel, physically, the void your absence had left. His kiss was insistent, almost too much. His hands trembled slightly at your back, as if he feared you might vanish between breaths. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that sought not to seduce, but to reclaim lost time.
Once the shock passed, you responded. Your fingers clung to his damp neck, your lips matching his in a rhythm that soon became smoother, less desperate, yet no less intense. Rain drummed on the ground, on your shoulders, like a symphony marking every second of this stolen moment. Amid the chaos of your bodies pressed together, one certainty rose, this wasn’t the end. Not yet.
Rain fell hard, in thick curtains that pelted your shoulders, your hair, your faces. The heavy drops burst cold against your skin, soaking your clothes until they clung to your bodies. The world disappeared behind that liquid veil, as if the downpour had decided to isolate you from the rest of the universe.
Your lips stayed locked to his with a heat that defied the icy bite of the weather. Every movement of his mouth against yours was urgent, hungry, as if both of you were trying to etch this moment into your very flesh before something, or someone, tore it away. Rain streamed down your faces, mingled with your breaths, slipped onto your tongues when your lips parted.
It was the first time. The very first time your mouths met. No restraint, no detour, in a gesture that swept away every barrier and burned away all doubt. And this first time had that singular taste no other could imitate, a blend of surrender, desire, and an almost painful relief, like the breaking of a silent wait that had been buried for weeks.
His hands tightened on you, not to trap you, but to hold on, as if afraid the wind and rain would carry you far from him. You felt every muscle in his arms tense, every ragged breath vibrating against your chest. His uneven breathing mixed with yours, warming your skin despite the cold, waterlogged air.
Time blurred, drowned in the rumble of distant thunder. Seconds? Hours? Impossible to tell. Finally, he drew back, his lips slowly parting from yours, as if he had to fight himself to end the kiss.
Your foreheads stayed close, short breaths colliding, creating small pockets of warmth in the damp chill. His eyes clung to yours with an almost painful intensity. The water trailing down his lashes mingled with the rain on your skin, but you knew, from their glimmer, that it wasn’t only rain shining there.
He searched your face, looking for something, a silent answer. An admission. To know if you regretted this kiss, or if you wanted more. And in that wordless exchange, your eyes had already answered his. No retreat. No shadow of doubt.
Without a word, he leaned in again. This time, the kiss shed all urgency. His lips found yours with a slowness almost solemn, making your heart pound even harder. It was soft, tender, yet no less passionate. A deeper passion, contained yet powerful, speaking of everything neither of you had dared to put into words.
One of his hands slid up your back to the base of your neck, fingers curling around a soaked lock of hair. The other drifted from the middle of your back to your hip, his palm fitting the curve, as if to remind you he still held you. His lips moved with the precision of someone who wanted to savor every nuance, remember every second. You responded with equal intensity, your fingers tangling in his rain-heavy hair. Your hands pulled him even closer, ignoring the cold that bit into you both. Each kiss made the rest of the world dissolve behind the curtain of pouring rain.
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time, but you paid it no mind. Nothing existed but him, you, and that invisible thread drawing tighter with every touch.
His lips lingered against yours for a moment, then parted just enough for his warm breath to brush your mouth. No words were needed. You understood. This kiss was more than a gesture, it was a confession, a promise, and perhaps even the beginning of something you hadn’t dared hope for. And you, standing there in the driving rain, knew this moment would be carved into you forever.
Summary : Back home, Verso took care to avoid his family and their curious looks, wanting to keep your sweet afternoon to himself. As the days went by, all was well between you, your growing relationship sweeter than ever. But would this little moment of happiness last forever?
It was past half‑past four when Verso finally arrived in front of his home. The Dessendre mansion was bathed in that golden light of late afternoon and, for once, his family wasn’t scattered inside. As soon as he crossed the estate gates, in the distance he was met with an unexpected scene, his family, gathered in the garden. A rare, almost unreal suspended moment. His mother was dancing, alone in the middle of the lawn, her light dress swirling around her with each step, her arms brushing the air as if she were conversing with the wind, her dress spinning with each movement. His father, seated at a slightly rust-speckled white iron table, watched her with that calm, ancient, unshakeable love, so deep it needs no words to fill everything. Alicia, fully absorbed in her novel, frowned in concentration. And Cléa furiously scribbled in her notebook, knees drawn to her chest, eyes squinted, focused on some strange shape refusing to take clear form.
His elder sister was the first to notice Verso. Instantly, she dropped her notebook and laid down her pencil. Arms crossed over her chest and a face that showed nothing good, a look of impending interrogation. He knew she was about to grill him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back and flee to his room, but he couldn’t avoid her forever. She would pester him sooner or later, so best she did it now. The moment he reached them, just as he had predicted, his sister hit him with questions, prying into his private life, “You stayed together for a long time…”, “What did you talk about?”, “Did you flirt? Did they flirt with you?”, “Wait! Did you kiss them?!” the rest of the family lifted their heads, casting at Cléa looks that were reproachful, even though they were equally curious. Only his mother remained lost in her own world.
He told them what he was willing to say. That they had talked while sitting in the grass. That the afternoon slipped away without his noticing. That he left when four o’clock struck. Nothing more. He didn’t mention the book, the bite, the closeness. Nor his laugh, nor that smile that gave him butterflies in his stomach. He left with something, a lingering impression on his skin, a voice in his ear, a memory lodged between beats of his heart. A shard of light he wanted to keep to himself a while longer.
Once Cléa’s questions were brushed aside with a shrug and the curious glances of his family deftly avoided, Verso added nothing. He slipped away quietly, barely nodding, and disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared. He wasn’t sure if he was fleeing or simply needed silence. Silence. Maybe a mix of both. Maybe he just wanted to hold onto this day intact, a bit longer. To be alone with that still-burning spark in his chest.
The mansion’s interior wrapped him in a familiar shadow the moment he crossed the threshold. The hall was immense, bathed in a golden half-light, stained-glass windows filtering light against ash-black walls. The marble floor barely reflected his steps, swallowed by silence. Golden tendrils wound along columns, moldings, and banisters like roots of an ancient tree, relics of another time.
He climbed the stairs slowly, fingers sliding over the cold dark railing. Halfway up he stopped abruptly. Hastened footsteps echoed below, heels clacking sharply against marble. He didn’t have to turn to guess, Alicia. He sighed softly, a thin smile already curling his lips. Of course she’d follow. She couldn’t ignore her curiosity, especially when he was hiding something.
She caught up with him in long strides, upright like an arrow, hands clasped behind her back, chin held high, a posture he knew well, the one she assumed before meddling in things that weren’t her business. Not a word too many. Just one question, direct, “What was that book you were hiding under your arm?”
He stood still. Silence stretched, first a second, then two. His eyes drifted to the top of the staircase. And then, unexpectedly, a scene flashed across his mind, a scene he had never lived, of you in his place, being cornered by your parents with the same questions Cléa and Alicia asked him, trembling hands, racing heart, voice stumbling over the first lie. He imagined you panicking, looking for a way out where there was none, cheeks flushed, words jumbled. That absurd, almost endearing thought brought him an idiotic smile.
Alicia noticed. She furrowed her brows slightly, hesitated, stared as if trying to solve a mystery she wasn’t quite ready for. Then her voice softened, almost cautious, “That book… They gave it to you, didn’t they?”
Verso came slowly back to reality. He turned to her, met her gaze, and nodded without looking away, “Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. As long as he didn’t reveal the nature of the book, its origin, or what it meant… lying served no purpose. A gift, a simple book like any other. He preferred to keep that truth simple, radiant, silent. That smile belonged to him, your promise. And that was all that mattered.
They resumed climbing side by side, unhurried. Alicia walked lightly, almost nonchalant, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fluttering across the hallway walls as if guessing what he was thinking, “Do you plan to invite them here soon?” she asked, voice calm, almost detached, “Or have you arranged to see them again already?”
Verso let a few seconds pass. He didn’t want to lie, nor to open up too much what he preferred to keep safe. He shrugged slightly, “I was thinking of inviting them here, to the mansion. After that… it’ll mostly depend on them.”
Alicia didn’t respond, but he felt her attentive gaze on him. They reached his bedroom door. He reached for the doorknob, but she didn’t move right away. She paused, hesitated, then asked softly and without malice, “Do you think you’re in love with them?”
He looked at her, a smile at the edge of his lips. Instead of answering, he ruffled her hair roughly. She giggled, tried to shield her head with her arms but didn’t budge, “Leave me alone,” he murmured amusedly, “I’ve got things to do.”
Unlike Cléa, Alicia knew when to stop. She lifted her head, stuck her tongue out at him, then called “Later!” and darted away, the sound of her heels, just before clacking on marble, muffled by the rug lining the hallway. He watched her disappear, feeling lighter. Then he pushed open his bedroom door. No sooner had he entered than two forms burst toward him in silent gallop. Monoco and Noco, tails whipping the air, charged him as though they had spent the entire day waiting. They’d surely slept, run about, and slept again. The mansion was their kingdom, especially when they found themselves alone within it.
Verso crouched immediately and scratched them behind the ears, “Yes, I missed you too…”
He took a few steps into the room and, as he went to set the book on his bed, its cover glowed with a very faint gleam, subtle but alive, as though breathing before his eyes. Somebody had just described something inside, something he hadn’t yet read, and the book let him know. He positioned himself on the floor, back against his bed’s edge, legs outstretched. The two dogs quickly laid down on either side of him like two faithful shadows, they didn’t demand fuss. As if they sensed it wasn’t time. He took the book tenderly in his hands, opened it, and turned pages until he came across something new, something beyond the drawings they’d made earlier that afternoon. His eyes fell instantly on the words, traced in their elegant, delicate handwriting, “I just got home! How was your trip back?”
A tranquil smile stretched his lips. He remained motionless for a moment, the book open in his hands, deeply touched by that simple gesture. He hadn’t yet grasped how much the possibility of talking to you from afar, through this strange, silent bond, made him happy. Book against him, dogs pressed by his sides, he felt at peace. As if everything finally made a bit more sense.
Verso slowly got up, careful not to disturb the two sleeping bodies beside him. He took a few steps to his desk, pushed aside a stack of notebooks, grabbed the first pen he found, then returned to the same spot between Monoco and Noco, who hadn’t moved an inch, sound asleep, almost snoring. He set the pen delicately on his lap, in the exact place where you had been sitting barely an hour earlier. He could almost feel your weight on his legs. He hesitated a moment, gaze lingering over the page where your words now lay.
He smiled again and dipped the pen in the inkwell. The black ink barely glinted under the muted light. His reply was simple, “Yes, I arrived without the least trouble. And you, was everything ok too?”
No sooner had he written the final letter, placed the period, than new words immediately appeared below, as though pushed by long-contained impatience, “Yes! Everything was fine for me as well!”
Verso stifled a laugh, his shoulders trembling slightly. He looked up at the ceiling, lips stretched in a tender grin. He couldn’t help himself. Curious. Teasing. As though Cléa’s spirit were manipulating him from afar, he couldn’t resist asking, “Judging by your quick reply… you were waiting by the book that whole time, weren’t you?”
This time nothing appeared immediately. One, two, three seconds passed. Then five. He could imagine you so clearly it was almost absurd, blushing, lifting your hands to hide your face, fingers clinging to your hair, heart racing at the thought that he had guessed right. Maybe you were muttering softly, fuming that you were too predictable, or that he knew you too well. It was crazy, he thought, the way he deciphered you like he’d always known you.
Eventually one word emerged. Short. Almost curt, “No.” Then another line, rushed, awkward, “The book was just open beside me. That’s all.”
Verso lowered his head slightly, chin resting on his palm, a mocking but gentle smile spreading. He knew. Of course he did. The book may have been open, as you so aptly said, but certainly not by chance.
He let the pen hover a moment between his fingers. Then, the smile still at the corner of his lips, he leaned back over the book, “Fine. I’ll pretend to believe your lame excuse.”
The response didn’t take long. As if he’d hit the mark. As if you’d been waiting for that moment since you arrived home, “I’m sorry… But I really do want to keep talking to you.”
His eyelids fluttered for a second, stirred by something warm and soft. If you answered that quickly, it wasn’t by accident. You knew you had been unmasked. You knew it was useless to pretend to be busy, to wait a bit before replying, to play at some disguise. There was nothing left but honesty. Raw. And he liked it, that honesty.
“I do too,” he replied, “Even though we spent the day together. Even though we only just parted. It’s maybe ridiculous… but I already desperately want to see you again.”
He slowly released the pen, placing it beside him. A soft breath escaped his lips, imperceptible. The light in his room had grown even softer, filtered by the heavy curtains drawn against the late afternoon. Monoco and Noco slept deeply, nestled against him like warm stones. The open book on his lap glimmered at times, very subtly, as though the words themselves were holding their breath. And you kept talking. For a long time. About everything and nothing, absurd subjects, trivial ones. About hearing Cléa’s distant complaints from his room. About the neighbor’s barking dog that made you jump and spill tiny ink drops over the page. About a word he struggled to write that you took mischievous pleasure in correcting. Those conversations in which time doesn’t exist, responses arrive instantly, and silence is a breath, not a break.
Then, gently, the conversation turned to you. Your home, your district. Verso had never set foot there. Maybe Cléa did once in her youth, but she has no clear memory. For him it was unfamiliar territory, and that only intensified his curiosity. He wanted to know. Understand what shaped you, where you grew up, with what colors, and what absences. You told him it was a cemetery. Just that. A single word. And he understood immediately what you meant. In reality, he shouldn’t have been surprised. The few writers he’d met so far, aside from you, weren’t known for their joy of life, in fact, quite the opposite. Writers carried a permanent gravity, as if every word weighed as much as silence. They were proud, haughty, but maybe not all. And you proved otherwise.
But in your voice, that word resonated differently, not as a reproach, but a calm, sad, accepted statement. He listened, rather, read, like you spoke of cold. That strange feeling of perpetual winter, even in heatwaves. As if the air around the district refused the slightest warmth. As though something in the walls, in the stones, in the veins of the ground refused color, free smiles, sunlight.
You described the muted streets, the low voices, eyes that never linger. You told him of a giant, labyrinthine library in the heart of the district, with endless staircases. He almost believed he could see it behind your words. He wished to go, by your side. To get lost with you in that library’s corridors. See you in your world, a world not made for him, or for you, really. But that thought fell over him like a shadow. The tensions. The invisible yet constant divide between painters and writers. That old stupid conflict keeping your worlds as stranger lands.
“You know,” he wrote after a moment, after you had finished writing, “It’s strange… that someone as gentle as you comes from such a mortuary place.”
And he didn’t write it out of politeness. He meant it. Sincerely. Because despite everything you shared, despite the grayness of your world, its silences, its cold walls, he couldn’t fathom how something so luminous could be born there.
“Would you… want to know more about the painters’ district?” That question, simple at first glance, had burned at his fingertips for minutes. It flowed onto the page like a whisper, barely laid down, but loaded with silent expectation.
Your answer arrived faster than he expected, “I’ve already been there, several times.” The words made his heart race a little faster. He sat up, suddenly more attentive. The idea of imagining you walking enemy territory felt almost unreal, “My parents aren’t known, you know. And few people know what I look like because I never show up anywhere. So… I can walk wherever I want, without worry.”
A pang in his belly. He envied you. Honestly. You, with your quiet anonymity, your discreet freedom, this lightness of being able to walk where you want without ever looking back, without fearing recognition or judgment. In contrast, he never went unnoticed. His name, the Dessendre prestige, his face imprinted in too many memories, it formed a gilded prison he couldn’t escape, even for a day. Or an hour. It was a curse he bore with elegance out of habit, but which he sometimes dreamed of escaping, even for an instant.
“I wish I were as free as you…” the words left an invisible mark, a gentle but deep scar on the page.
Silence settled. He traced fingers over Monoco’s ears, then Noco’s, sleeping softly beside him, before leaning again and writing, “Would you like to come someday? Or come back… to the painters’ district.” His pen paused. His heart too, “I’d like to show you my favourite spots. Give you a tour of the mansion. Introduce you to my dogs…”
He remained frozen, eyes on the page, unable to write further. As though the question, barely formed, trembled of itself. He hardly dared to hope. Not after everything the union of your two worlds complicated.
But no sooner had the final letter been laid than ink pulsed with a single word, “Yes.”
One word. A breath. A muffled explosion in his chest.
Then, guided by the momentum of a too‑rapid heart, “Yes. Yes, I want to. As soon as I can. Well, whenever you want. I’m almost always available.”
A strange warmth spread through his veins, from the tips of his fingers to the base of his neck. His smile was no longer mocking, nor simply tender, it was fragile. Genuine. Overwhelmed. A heartbeat stretched out in silence across his face. The room seemed to have warmed, or maybe it was just him. And he already imagined you crossing the boundary of the district, curious as you took in his landmarks, those he longed to share, to let you delve further into his world. He imagined you by his side, walking slowly so you could observe, question, touch everything. He imagined happiness. You'd only said yes, a simple word, three letters. But that simple little word, however tiny, was enough to make his whole universe resonate.
Days passed. Three? Four? Maybe five, maybe more. He no longer knew. Time now seemed to flow differently... as if every tick counted double, as if each night without a message was a void, a crack in a thread he never wanted to let go of.
Even during the busiest, most occupied moments of his day, he always had the book near him. On his bedside table, beside him on the piano bench, under his arm walking with Monoco and Noco, always within reach. He wrote whenever he could. Or read, when it wasn’t his turn. Your exchanges followed a natural, irregular rhythm, effortlessly. Breath in two voices. When one wrote, the other seemed always ready to respond. While he played, the book remained close, each note seeming dedicated to you. The slow melodies, the pauses between chords, everything vibrated in sync with that silent but constant presence. Monoco and Noco watched him often with lazy eyes, as though they understood something was changing. That their master, typically so secretive, sometimes distant, was lighting up with a new radiance.
The only times the book wasn’t with him were when he was with family. When someone knocked on his door, or a meal forced him to leave his room. He always made sure to hide it, in the same drawer, under the same blank pages. Even though no one else could read what you wrote, even though the words vanished for everyone else, he refused the risk. It belonged to you, and to you alone. That secret woven through your confidences and shared silences, he wanted to keep it intact. Untouchable.
And as the days went by, something changed. At first subtle. A word dropped with more tenderness. A phrase brushing on confession without sinking in. A different way to say goodbye. Then it became clearer. More direct. There began a kind of flirting, hesitant at first, light, almost veiled in irony. Then gradually more assured, coming from both of you. You teased each other. You tested the limits of that invisible bubble around you, until there were no limits. Until it felt natural to flirt, to respond with a little heart at the end of a sentence. To write things you would never say out loud, but that felt right here, in this space.
One evening, as he absent‑mindedly leafed through the last pages looking for a word to answer, his eyes stopped. His breath too. A whole page, entirely covered in small, hastily drawn hearts, some skewed, others half‑erased. And in the center, as an obvious declaration, his name, Verso, surrounded by a larger, slightly trembling heart. He froze, unable to tear his eyes away from that silent, almost childish confession. When he asked you about it a few lines later, a teasing “Were all those little hearts meant for me?” you didn’t deny it. You didn’t divert the topic. No evasive move. Just a shy but honest admission, “I mixed it up with my journal and the book…” embarrassment showed in your words, tangible, but you didn’t retract anything. You didn’t apologize properly. Because despite the awkwardness, it was sincere. Touching. And he reread his name among all those hearts, unable to stop smiling like an idiot.
The complicity had slipped between you unannounced. He no longer remembered when he started smiling unconsciously at each of your messages. Nor when his fingers took to grazing the book’s cover, even when he didn’t open it. Nor when the need to talk to you became a necessity.
You were everywhere. In his thoughts, in words he hadn’t yet written, in everyday gestures. He saw you in the sky, in the reflection of a window. He caught himself imagining what you would say if he wrote this or that. He waited for your reaction, your silent laugh, your amused annoyance. And you, you were still there. Present. Alive. Vibrant. Your responses carried that special warmth you only find in shared intimacy. You no longer held back. You said what you felt, even the most tender things. Even the ones that sparked a strange heat in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if it was normal. Reasonable. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t a choice. It was an irresistible movement. A gentle force drawing him toward you. And he didn’t want to resist, not when every word you wrote made him fall a bit more.
Late in the afternoon, or perhaps early evening, while the sky outside slowly turned shades of ochre and pink, Verso had settled into the manor’s library. He had chosen one of the most secluded sofas, half-swallowed by tall shelves and half-hidden by drawn curtains. There, bathed in dim light, he opened the book, the very one no one was supposed to see, and began rereading some of your messages.
He couldn’t help himself. Some lines he nearly knew by heart. Others, he rediscovered with a growing tenderness. You wrote in a way that made him feel like the only person in the world. And the way you had been teasing him lately, playing with boundaries so naturally, it disarmed him. He found himself smiling. Truly smiling. A bit foolishly, eyes unfocused, holding the book loosely. He wondered what you would be like if you spoke to him that way face-to-face. Would you be just as bold, just as sharp, with him right there, only inches away? Or would you look away, cheeks flushed, unable to own a single word? The thought nearly made him laugh. He felt like a teenager experiencing his first crush. It was ridiculous. And yet… wonderfully pleasant.
So lost was he in his thoughts, in your imagined voice, in the memory of your messages, that he didn’t hear the door open, nor the soft footsteps on the polished floor. He didn’t even react to the familiar creak near the carpet until, “You’re reading a blank book now? You're going mad, honestly…”
The voice startled him. He snapped the book shut with a sharp, almost violent motion, as if the sound alone could erase the page he’d just read. Too late. Cléa stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder, arms crossed, her expression amused but puzzled. He looked far more suspicious than he intended.
He practically jumped off the sofa, clutching the book in his hand like a caught animal. Now standing, the sofa a feeble barrier between them, his heart beat a little too fast. Cléa observed him in silence. Her face was calm, but her eyes searched. Scanned. And for the first time in a long while, he felt his mind falter. His usually sharp thoughts, always ready to lie effortlessly, ran into a blank space. As if your shyness had passed through the pages and infected him from afar, keeping him from defending himself. It wasn’t embarrassment. No. It was something deeper. A strange vulnerability, almost tender, that made lying impossible.
“I… I was thinking about what I could draw,” he said, lifting the book slightly, a feeble excuse, “It’s been a while since I painted anything. Inspiration’s been hard to come by.”
Cléa raised an eyebrow, still arms crossed, her silence louder than any long speech. She didn’t need words to convey the message, he could practically hear her expression saying, “You really think I’m buying that?”
He knew it. She knew him too well. Everyone had lied at some point, him, her, their sister, their parents. They’d grown up in a house of appearances. But that’s exactly why she could smell a lie like a familiar perfume. And this one reeked. Yet, she didn’t press. She finally relaxed her arms, exhaling softly through her nose, as if giving up a battle she could’ve easily won, “Anyway. I came to tell you dinner’s ready.”
She turned to leave, adding over her shoulder, “Mom and Dad want to talk to us. All three. You, Alicia, and me.” Verso looked up, intrigued, “They said it was important.”
He nodded slowly, not replying immediately. Family dinners weren’t unusual. They always gathered around the long dining table, even during tense times. But this, this insistence on all three of them being present before saying anything, that was rare. Suspiciously rare. The kind of phrasing that hinted at something serious. Maybe even troubling. And though he couldn’t explain why, the thought of what was coming sent a dull tension curling in his gut.
Before heading down, Verso made a quick detour to his room. Just in case. He approached his desk, opened a rarely used drawer, and carefully slid the book inside, closing it with care. But before that, he scribbled a quick note to you, just below the last message he’d sent, the one you hadn’t yet answered, letting you know he’d be gone for a while. Just dinner.
Then he went down, footsteps quiet, gaze still slightly clouded. The dining room glowed with warm golden light from the chandeliers above. The monumental table stretched through the center of the room, polished wood gleaming under the candlelight. It was already set, as always, with ceremonial precision. Plates aligned to the millimeter, crystal glasses spotless. Too perfect for a casual family meal.
Verso sat in his usual seat without a word. He wasn’t the last. Alicia entered seconds later, her light steps contrasting with the thick silence. She sat down too, offering a nervous smile to no one in particular. Cléa, already there, watched calmly. Neither tense nor relaxed. Her usual in-between.
No one touched the food. The silverware gleamed, untouched. The silence wasn’t one of routine or tiredness. It was heavy, dense. Every glance exchanged seemed to weigh too much. Even Alicia, usually chatty, kept her lips tight, eyes downcast. Cléa remained impassive, but Verso saw the tension in her interlaced fingers.
It was their mother, Aline, who broke the moment by taking the first bite. That simple act started the motion. Alicia followed timidly, then Cléa. Verso, however, stayed still. Back straight, hands on either side of his plate. He wasn’t hungry. Not until he knew.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Almost too calm, “What did you want to talk to us about?”
Another pause. Short this time. Renoir lifted his head. His gaze was serious, but not hard. Measured. Prepared, “The head of the Writers’ Council is coming to the manor tomorrow. Him, his wife, and their two children.”
Verso’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what that meant. The Council didn’t move without reason. And never to this manor.
Renoir continued, his tone carrying the quiet authority he reserved for important moments, “They’re not coming for an inspection. At least not officially. Let’s say... the tension between districts has reached a point where key figures now want to strengthen ties.”
Aline added, her voice gentle but firm, “We want you to be there. You are the future of this house. And you must make a good impression. This isn’t just a dinner. It’s been years since someone this influential from the writers’ district has stepped inside this place.”
Verso lowered his gaze slightly. He understood the weight of it. But why such insistence on their presence? Him, Cléa, Alicia... What role did they truly play in this display? Alicia had gone pale. Her eyes darted from plate to parents to her hands. Cléa, in contrast, had lifted her chin slightly. Interested, perhaps. But not anxious. Or if she was, she hid it better. Verso… he stood somewhere between. He felt the importance. The urgency. But something about it all felt off, and he couldn’t place why.
Eventually, he began eating too. Without appetite. He listened more than he spoke, letting the conversation drift around him. Until Cléa threw a deliberately sarcastic jab at her younger brother. He shot back instantly. A sharp quip. A smile meant to feign offense. And the game began. A few barbs. A couple of cutting remarks. Eye rolls. Nothing mean. Just routine.
And, surprisingly, the tension lifted. The air grew lighter, gradually replaced by something oddly soft. Their bickering was part of their balance. Even Alicia, distracted by their exchange, let out a small laugh. Verso didn’t know it yet, but that moment, the dinner with the Writers’ Council, would mark a turning point. A fracture.
The morning had passed without him really having time to breathe. He hadn’t spoken much with you, and that thought had been chasing him since he woke up. You had barely exchanged a few words. Each of you busy on your own side. You, apparently, had decided to help your friend at the grand library in the writers’ district. As for him… he had spent the morning preparing for the arrival of that important Council member and his family.
The more he heard about this famous library, the more curious he became. It was no longer just a vague image or a distant place in his mind. It was tangible, real, connected to you. And he wanted to see it with his own eyes. Maybe this meeting, despite its official, almost ceremonial nature, might ease some of the tension. Enough, at least, for the two of you to meet somewhere other than in secret. At your place. In your district. That thought gave him a kind of renewed courage. He wanted the day to go well. It had to go well. For both of you. For you.
The family in question arrived earlier than expected. Early afternoon. Verso wasn’t surprised. Everyone was gathered in the grand hall, bathed in natural light filtering through stained glass windows. The heavy entrance doors opened, and the air immediately changed. The silhouettes that appeared on the threshold were everything one would expect of them, impeccable, polished, calculated.
Renoir and Aline stepped forward to greet them, polite smiles firmly in place. The words exchanged were quiet, coldly courteous. Verso and his sisters remained a bit further back, near the staircase. Observing. In silence. Alicia, next to him, was gripping the folds of her dress between her fingers. He glanced over at her. Her expression was tense. Too tense. He gently slid his hand into hers. She flinched slightly, then relaxed. Just a little. Cléa, on the other hand, was sizing the family up from head to toe. Her gaze moved slowly over each of them, methodical, cold, almost aggressive. She said nothing, but he understood what she was thinking. She didn’t trust them. Not for a second.*
Their mother finally signaled for them to come forward. The three of them did so without hesitation. Renoir introduced them with pride. Cléa. Alicia. Verso. The children of the house. In return, the Council couple did the same. Two young people, barely younger than him. A boy and a girl. Practically identical. Same eyes, same high cheekbones, same artificial smiles. Twins, probably. He didn’t catch their names. Not really. At that moment, he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have. He simply nodded politely, feigning interest. He knew how to pretend. He had grown up in this kind of environment. He was even quite good at it.
After a few formal exchanges, Renoir and Aline stepped away with their guests, leaving the “young people” to mingle. The boy had already turned to Cléa, as if expecting her to take the lead, being the eldest. She sighed, vaguely annoyed, then declared in an unmistakable tone that she’d show them the garden. Not the manor. Absolutely not. That was out of the question. Especially when she didn’t know their true intentions, whether they truly wanted peace, or were planning to stab them in the back the moment they let their guard down.
The small group made their way to the back courtyard. The sun was soft, filtered through the leaves. The garden was vast, meticulously maintained. A white table awaited them under a pergola overgrown with a variety of greenery. Rose bushes, flower beds, perfectly pruned fruit trees, everything exuded a deceptive sense of peace.
They sat down. The boy settled in as if he owned the place, lifting his chin with that subtle air of superiority so typical of the writers in his caste. He didn’t speak much, but a single glance was enough to read his opinion, of the place, and of them. The girl was different. She didn’t speak either, but it wasn’t the silence that unsettled Verso. It was the way she looked at him. Her eyes, almost unnaturally colored, were fixed on him without blinking. Bright. Intrusive. She made no effort to hide her interest. Not in the garden. Not in Cléa. Not in Alicia. In him.
And every time he turned toward one of his sisters, she frowned slightly, as if annoyed. Not loudly. Not enough for it to be openly hostile. But enough for him to notice. Enough to make him uncomfortable. He looked away, trying to find a focal point anywhere but her. He hated that kind of attention. Especially when it came from someone he didn’t know. It made him feel... exposed. And he didn’t like that. It wasn’t like when you looked at him. You could stare at him for hours without saying a word, and it never bothered him. Because in your gaze, there was no calculation. No mask. Just something true. Something alive. Your eyes always sparkled, but for different reasons, sometimes admiration, sometimes clumsy curiosity, because you were genuinely interested in what he thought, in who he was. Not in his name. Not in his face or appearance. Just him.
The afternoon dragged on, heavy, poisoned by an artificial calm. Despite Alicia’s attempts to lighten the mood, small questions, sincere compliments, gentle anecdotes, nothing worked. The boy answered in monosyllables, or over his shoulder, as if she were just background noise. The girl said nothing. But she kept staring at Verso, with that silent intensity that wouldn’t let go. A silent fascination, almost mechanical. He couldn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t even have the strength. Cléa, seated across from him, ground her teeth every time the girl smiled. Her back was tense as a bowstring. She was playing her part, of course. But her fake smile trembled on her lips, and Verso knew exactly what she was thinking, if this guy talks to me one more time like I’m the dumbest person alive, I’ll strangle him.
No one dared say it, but none of them were meant to get along. And yet, they had to stay there. Seated. Doing nothing. Listening to the birdsong covering up the heavy silence that floated above their heads like a too-perfectly-ironed tablecloth. And every time, he hoped that something, a gesture, anything, might cut this masquerade short. But no. The afternoon stretched on. Then, finally, the sun dipped low enough that one could say, it’s dinner time. All five of them returned to the manor.
The dining room had never looked so elegant. Candles with long, unmoving flames. A white tablecloth perfectly aligned. Dishes so clean you could see yourself in them like a mirror. Shadows danced on the walls. Everything was magnificent. And yet… Verso saw only a waste of effort. His parents had gone through so much trouble… for what? For them? For these people who saw only rivals to tame? For an alliance already corroded by pride and distrust?
He sat down. The meal began. The four adults spoke among themselves. Discussions of politics, responsibilities, and the future had been traded for lighter topics, memories, passions other than painting or writing. The children, however, were reduced to silence. Heavy. Tense. As if emotions had been forbidden at their table.
Until Renoir, proud-eyed, slipped in to the couple sitting at the table with them, “Verso plays piano, you know? I’m the one who taught him.”
He didn’t even look up. But he immediately felt the girl’s sharp movement, her gaze lock onto his. A shiver ran up his neck. That same sparkling, intrusive look. Then her voice, soft. Much too soft, “Would you play for me?”
Turning his head slightly, he looked at her and answered politely. Not a firm “no.” Just a detour, “I prefer to play alone, out of habit, sorry.”
She looked surprised. Her features shifted slightly. The mask cracked. The smile collapsed, not entirely, just enough to show a flicker of real disappointment. And, shamefully, he liked it.
The meal ended in polite silence. And as soon as the manor’s door closed behind their guests, Alicia grabbed Cléa’s hand, then Verso’s. She said nothing. She pulled them. They followed her, because they had no choice. Not leaving their parents time to discuss the afternoon that had been disastrous for them. They crossed the staircase, the hallways, still heavy with the scent of dinner and the bitterness of the day. Until Alicia’s bedroom.
As soon as the door closed, Cléa frowned, “What is wrong with you?”
But Alicia didn’t answer. She rushed to her bed. She pulled off the covers, the pillows falling to the floor in a soft chaos. Verso understood immediately. He stepped forward without a word to help. There was no need to speak. She wanted to build a fort, spend time with Cléa and him.
Cléa raised an eyebrow, “How old are we again? We’re not babies.”
Verso shot her a dark look. And, without waiting, she sighed… then bent down to pick up a cushion. All three got to work. They moved chairs, sheets, dragged light furniture around. A desk became a pillar. A thin blanket transformed into a roof. Two more for the floor. Pillows everywhere. And at the center, Esquie’s plush toy, still in perfect condition, sat like a guardian of their little bubble. Big enough for all three. They lay down inside. And the world faded away. They talked for a long time. About the garden. Their doubts. The strange look from the girl. The boy’s behavior. They weren’t kind, but they weren’t mean. Just clear-eyed. Tired. Together. There was no teasing, no rivalry that night. Just the calm breath of their voices, muffled by the blanket stretched above their heads. It had been a long time since they’d been like that. Just… children. Together. With no roles to play. And gradually, the words spaced out. The silences grew longer. Until sleep gently caught up with them. And they fell asleep, huddled in their fort, like they used to when they were smaller, younger.
Morning slid slowly over their still-heavy eyelids. A soft light bathed the room, warm, almost golden, too peaceful to be honest. Verso opened his eyes first. A dull ache pulled at his left arm, Alicia’s head resting against his shoulder. On the other side, Cléa was drooling happily on his sleeve, mouth ajar, arms scattered like after a battle.
He stayed there a few seconds, breath short. He felt… strange. Not sick. Not really. But not himself either. As if someone had reorganized his thoughts in the night, and he no longer knew to whom they belonged. The face of the girl from yesterday appeared without warning. Not like a memory, not like a passive image. No, it was a presence. A whisper between his temples. He heard her voice, saw that irritating smile again. He tried to shake off those thoughts, frowned, forced himself to think of something else, of you. Your writing. Your voice. Your absence. But nothing worked. His heart was racing for no reason. A strange heat tightened in his belly.
Without a sound, he slowly pulled away. His movements were slow, restrained, almost too gentle, afraid of breaking something, of waking them up. He stood, closed the bedroom door behind him. The silence of the hallway swallowed him. The sun was already high in the sky. They had slept a long time.
Back in his room, he went straight to his desk. The drawer slid open with a faint creak. The book was there. It glowed softly, as if waiting for him. A familiar warmth filled his chest. A smile touched his lips. You had written to him. Maybe he would finally be able to talk to you. He missed you. He opened the pages, trembling. But the message, though kind, chilled him.
You apologized. You said you wouldn’t be very present today. Someone had broken into the archive room of the grand library. Scrolls had been stolen, and you wanted to stay by your friend’s side, who was very stressed by the incident. You promised to make it up to him.
His fingers trembled slightly at the edge of the page. He understood. Of course. But he envied her. He envied that friend. He wished it were him, that he was the one in your arms, that he was the one you comforted. That he was the one you chose, again and again, in any situation.
The afternoon dragged on. You exchanged a few words, between breaths, a few sweet nothings thrown like caresses, little honeyed nicknames here and there. But something was off. He felt something living inside him. Grafted during the night. A foreign voice. A thick fog.
Days passed. And the sickness grew. He thought of her, the other girl. The one from dinner. The one with the mechanical gaze and the too-polite smile. And it made no sense. None. He didn’t love her. He had never loved her. He didn’t even know her damn name! But her face kept coming back, again and again. He saw her in reflections. In silhouettes. In dreams. It drove him mad. He found himself thinking of her like he thought of you. With that same warmth. That same longing. That same burning need. And yet, it wasn’t you. He was disgusted. Felt betrayed by his own thoughts.
Little by little, he drifted away from you. Stopped replying. Stopped reading. Even when the book glowed, even when every fiber of his being screamed, “Open it. Open it.”, he couldn’t. He was dying to open that book, to talk to you endlessly, about everything, about nothing, about you two. To flirt with you. To tell you how much he missed you, that he wanted to see you, and never leave you. But an invisible force stopped him. A poison in his head, spreading through his whole body.
Cléa was the first to notice. As always. She didn’t comment, at first. But the side glances, the long silences, then the heavy sighs eventually burst out. That evening, he was sitting on his bed, hands in his hair, eyes burning, on the verge of tears, breath short. She stood, arms crossed, more worried than annoyed this time, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Since they came… you’re not you anymore.”
He didn’t respond for a long moment, as if searching for an answer he didn’t even have. Then he let out, in a breath, “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I don’t understand anything, Cléa… I feel like I’m going insane...” his hands were shaking. Jaw clenched. Head low.
She stepped closer. Hesitated. Then, against all expectations, sat down next to him, hugged him. Held him tight. Slid a hand down his back, comforted him like you comfort a crying baby, “You’re not the problem,” she murmured, “Something’s wrong. I can see it. And I won’t leave you in this state.”
They stayed there a while, in that slightly broken, slightly tender calm. Then she stood up, and with a sigh, said, “Tomorrow, we have to go to the writers’ district. Maman and Papa want to talk to… that family.”
His body froze. A knot formed in his stomach. Dull migraine. Hot flush. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or horrified. A grimace, almost painful, twisted his lips. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see them. And yet, something in his chest started beating faster. Not for you. For her. And that… that destroyed him.
Cléa stared at him for a long time. She knew. He knew she knew. And she knew that he knew she knew. She said nothing more. Just whispered, “I’m going to see Maman and Papa. If you need… you know where to find me.”
The door closed softly. And in the silence, he remained alone. Fighting against himself. His breath erratic. His thoughts tangled. Two Versos. Two hearts. Two desires. One body. And no more bearings.
The next morning, he woke with a dull ache in his gut. Hunger, anxiety, confusion. Everything was blending together. A black fog in his head. Constant tension in his muscles. He felt like an empty body, a shell holding only fragments of broken emotions. A walking corpse. A wandering zombie. Nothing was right. Nothing made sense. And he no longer knew how to fix it. How could he feel better, try to fix himself, when he didn’t even understand what was happening to him?
He got up mechanically, heart already too heavy. His movements were slow, detached, as if each action cost him something. He joined his family in front of the manor gates, silent, closed off. Aline approached immediately, worried. She didn’t even need to ask the question, she saw it. In his eyes. In his hunched back. In the paleness of his face. In the dark circles under his beautiful eyes. She gently pulled him to her, and he didn’t resist. He buried his face against his mother’s shoulder, like a child too tired to fight, tired after crying for hours. He wished it would help. That this unconditional love would soothe him. Repair him. But no. Nothing changed. Not even a little.
The car arrived shortly after. A Landaulet, shiny black, imposing, powered by an engine still loud despite the era’s advancements. A rare, elegant model, designed to comfortably hold maybe six passengers in the back, with a driver separated by a sliding window. The kind of vehicle only the richest could afford. They got in, Aline still close to him, a hand on his knee. She threw discreet but anxious glances at her husband. They didn’t need to speak. Both knew they should have canceled. Postponed. Waited a little, until their beloved son felt better. But they couldn’t.
During the ride, Verso remained silent. Eyes fixed on his shoes, he didn’t see the streets, the trees, the passing people. He didn’t even see the subtle architectural change marking their entry into the writers’ district. He was there without being there. A prisoner of himself.
The car stopped in a lovely square. Though it was lovely, it was exactly as you had described, a chilling silence, gray weather, a cemetery. In front of them, an immense house like an embassy. Nearby, an even more imposing building, elegant, half-academy, half-library, with many youths in plain uniforms coming and going. He recognized the place immediately. It was the library you had told him about. The sting in his heart was instant, brutal. Your image overwhelmed him. Your smile, your voice. Your absence.
In front of the house, the family who had invited them was already waiting. Perfect, as always. Too perfect. His heart pounded in his chest, erratically, senselessly. And suddenly, he saw her. Her. The girl. The one with the artificial eyes. The one who wouldn’t leave his thoughts. She approached. And before he could react, she threw herself into his arms. Without a word. As if it were normal. As if she had the right. He wanted to pull away. Scream. But his body wouldn’t move.
And that’s when he heard it. A laugh. A voice. Two sounds he loved more than anything. Two sounds he had missed terribly. You. Your laugh. Your voice.
He turned his head instinctively. And your eyes met. A few seconds. Seconds that felt like hours. He felt everything in him stop, tense, break. You were there. Beautiful. Alive. Present. But your face changed instantly. First confusion. Then sadness. And finally… betrayal. You disappeared into the grand library, your friend at your side. As if he were the last person you wanted to see. He couldn’t breathe. It broke his heart. Made him even sicker than he already was. And he knew. You too, your heart had just cracked. And he had heard it. Had felt the break. Despite the distance. Despite the glances. He wanted to run. Run after you. Catch up. Take you in his arms, tell you he was sorry. That it wasn’t him. That something was wrong. That he needed you. But he stayed there. Motionless. Silent. Chained by a force he didn’t understand. And in the arms of a girl he did not love.
