Étienne POV
Rain ran down my face, mingling with the metallic tang of exhaust and the sharper smell of ruined paint. Blue lights skittered across the slick pavement as sirens climbed louder in the night.
Julien knelt opposite me, his face drained of color. "She's—she's breathing, right?"
"Yes." I pressed my fingers to her wrist again, feeling the faint pulse under the wet skin. "She is."
"Mon Dieu," he whispered, head tipped up as if the sky might answer him. "This is my fault. I should've—"
"Shut up, Julien." My voice cut harder than I intended. "Now's not the time."
Voices rose around us in quick, worried French—someone calling for a medic, another shouting about the car. The driver, a middle-aged man in a sodden trench coat, stood a few feet away, stunned, muttering, "Je ne l'ai pas vue… I didn't see her…"
I barely looked at him. All I could see was her.
Isobel's hair was plastered to her cheek, rain darkening the ends. Her coat, once white, was smeared with grime and streaked near the elbow. Without really thinking, I brushed the wet grit away from her jacket.
"We need an ambulance!" Julien barked.
"I already called," someone in the crowd answered.
The noise blurred. Her eyelids fluttered, fragile and uncertain.
"Isobel," I said, voice low. "Hey. Look at me."
A thin sound escaped her—less a word than a breath. Her lips moved as if she'd been trying to form something.
"Ne parle pas," I whispered. "Don't talk. Just breathe."
Her fingers twitched. I curled my hand around hers.
Julien's voice cracked on the edge of command. "Étienne, move, let me—"
"I've got her," I snapped.
He stared, but he didn't argue. For once he seemed unmoored, his hands hanging useless at his sides as he watched the rise and fall of her chest.
The ambulance tore up the street and stopped with a hiss. Two paramedics jumped out, issuing orders in rapid French.
"Reculez, monsieur!" one snapped, gently pushing me back. "We'll take it from here."
I let them; it felt wrong to let her go. They eased her onto a stretcher with practiced care. She stirred and made a soft, unhappy sound.
"She's waking up!" Julien said, hope broken into his voice.
"Pas encore," the medic replied. "Not fully. But she's stable."
Stable. The word didn't settle anything inside me.
"Where are you taking her?" I demanded.
"Pitié-Salpêtrière."
"I'm coming."
The medic's eyes tightened. "Family only."
Julien stepped forward. "I'm her friend. I'll go with her."
I stared at him. "You think I'm letting you—"
They didn't wait for me. They loaded her into the ambulance; Julien climbed in beside her without hesitation.
The doors shut. The lights bobbed and vanished into the rainy night.
For a long, empty second I just stood there, soaked through, ears ringing with the echo of the siren and the hollow thud of my own chest.
The driver was shaking now, tears streaking down his face as officers questioned him. I didn't see any of it. My thoughts were narrow and terrible.
She could've died.
Because of me.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and damp wool. I arrived fifteen minutes later, rain dripping from my hair onto the marble floor, my shirt clinging to my back. The receptionist watched me with guarded eyes.
"Isobel Delacroix," I said.
She tapped keys. "She just arrived. Still in emergency."
"Can I see her?"
The woman shook her head. "Not yet."
I turned toward the waiting room and froze. Julien sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, shirt torn at the sleeve, his expression hard as stone.
When he saw me, his jaw clenched. "You shouldn't be here."
I walked over. "She's my responsibility."
"Your responsibility?" He laughed, bitter and raw. "You're the reason she's lying in there!"
I ignored him, staring through the glass where nurses moved in blue scrubs. "She's strong. She'll be fine."
"You don't even know her!" Julien snapped, standing.
"I know enough," I said.
He stepped closer. "You show up, play the charming stranger, and now she's hurt. I don't know what game you're playing, Étienne, but stay away from her."
I let a faint smile touch my mouth. "You said that before. Didn't work then either."
His fist curled. "You think this is a joke?"
"No," I said quietly. "I think it's destiny."
He blinked, thrown. "What?"
I didn't answer. She'd returned like a storm—loud, unavoidable, dangerous. Maybe fate had a sense of humor.
A nurse came out. "Monsieur Laurent?"
Julien and I answered, "Oui?"
She hesitated. "Family?"
"Friend," Julien said.
"Fiancé," I said.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't argue. "She's stable now. You can see her one at a time."
Julien looked ready to protest, but I was already moving.
The room beyond was dim, the monitor's glow cutting the dark.
Isobel lay pale against white sheets. Her arm was in a sling; a thin bandage crossed her forehead.
I stopped at the foot of the bed, not trusting myself to come closer.
"Salut, ma belle," I whispered. "You really know how to make an entrance."
She stirred. "Étienne…?" Her voice was small, thick with sleep.
I crossed to her side. "Je suis là. I'm here."
She blinked slowly. "What…what happened?"
"You decided to fight traffic."
Her mouth twitched; it nearly became a smile. "I fell?"
"More like flew."
She groaned. "That's not funny."
"Non, c'est pas drôle," I agreed, though my voice betrayed me.
Her hand reached weakly for mine. "Julien?"
"He's outside," I said, keeping my tone steady. "You'll see him soon."
She nodded once, eyes drifting closed.
For a moment I let myself take her in—the curve of her cheek, the small scar by her jaw I'd once kissed, the measured rise of her chest.
Alive. She was alive.
Something unclenched inside me.
I brushed a damp strand of hair from her face. "Don't ever scare me like that again."
"Scare you?" she whispered.
"You have no idea," I admitted, voice rougher than I meant.
She looked at me with half-lidded eyes. "You're not very good at pretending you don't care."
That landed harder than I expected. "Maybe I'm done pretending."
Her brows pulled together, confusion cutting through the haze. "What do you mean?"
Before I could answer, the door opened. Julien stepped in with a nurse behind him.
He froze when he saw our hands still linked.
"Visiting time's over," the nurse said gently.
Julien shot me a look that could have killed. "I'll take it from here."
I nodded, stepping back. "Of course."
As I turned, Isobel's fingers tightened—just a little—around mine.
Her voice was a whisper. "Don't go yet."
Julien swung toward her. "What did you say?"
I didn't move.
She blinked, eyes clearing. "Stay."
The room narrowed to the steady beep of the monitor.
Julien's face darkened. "Étienne—"
"I'll be right here," I said softly, not taking my eyes off her.
The nurse's hand hovered over the console. Suddenly the monitor spiked. Her body jerked. The nurse cried out.
"Elle convulse!" she shouted. "She's about to relapse!"