“It’s going to be a process,” he said.“There will be letters, meetings. She’s not going away easily.”
“I’m sorry, Luc.”
“Don’t be. I just… I need to see you. Not in the library. I need to be away from all of this. Can I come over?”
Twenty minutes later, he was at her door. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes pronounced. He didn’t say a word, just stepped inside and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair. He was trembling slightly.
She held him, her hands rubbing slow circles on his back. This was what he needed. Not solutions, not advice. Just a harbor.
After a long moment, he loosened his hold and looked down at her.“I’m so tired of fighting,” he whispered.
“Then stop fighting for a little while,” she said, leading him to the sofa.
He sat, leaning his head back, closing his eyes. She made tea and sat beside him, her presence a quiet bulwark against the chaos outside. He talked a little more about the meeting, the frustrating legalese, the sheer pettiness of it all. But as he spoke, nestled in the calm of her apartment, the frantic energy began to leave him.
He opened his eyes and saw the framed drawing of the library on her mantel. A slow, weary smile touched his lips.“There it is,” he murmured.“The quiet.”
He looked at her, his gaze full of a profound, grateful love.“You are my quiet, Élise.”
The storm was still raging out there, but here, in her small apartment, they had found the calm at its center. The battle with Camille was far from over, but as he took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, Élise knew they would face it together. The library had brought them together, but it was in the real world, with all its noise and trouble, that their love would be forged.
Chapter 21:
The Refuge of the Real
The fight with Camille became a low, constant hum in the background of their lives, a dissonant chord underlying their new melody. Luc’s visits to the library became less frequent, replaced by appointments with his lawyer. When he did come, he was often distracted, his brow furrowed, the creative well that had once flowed so freely now seemingly choked with legal brambles.
Élise watched him struggle, a helpless ache in her chest. She could offer him tea, a quiet corner, a listening ear, but she couldn’t stop the letters from arriving or the draining phone calls. This was a battle fought with paper and ink of the most soulless kind, and it was slowly dimming his light.
One Wednesday, he didn’t come to the library at all. Instead, a bouquet of flowers arrived at her apartment that evening—a simple, stunning arrangement of white peonies and deep blue delphiniums. The card read:‘For the keeper of my peace. I’m sorry today was lost to the noise. - L’
The gesture was so thoughtful, so him, that it brought tears to her eyes. Even in the midst of his own turmoil, he was thinking of her, trying to protect the sanctuary they had built.
The next time he came to her apartment, he brought his notebook. He didn’t open it. He just placed it on her coffee table like a talisman.
“I can’t,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him.“Every time I try to write, I hear her lawyer’s voice. I see the paragraphs of the contract. The words feel dead.”
Élise picked up the notebook. It felt heavy with his frustration. She then went to her bookshelf and retrieved the midnight blue sketchbook he had given her. Raconteuse.
“Then don’t write your story,” she said, placing it in his hands.“Write something else. Or draw. Or just… be here. You don’t have to produce anything. You just have to be.”
He looked from the sketchbook to her face, the storm in his eyes churning with a complex mix of gratitude and despair.“I feel like I’m failing you. I’m not the man I was in the library.”
“You’re more,” she said firmly.“That man was a dream. This man, the one fighting, the one who sends flowers when he’s having a bad day… this is the real man. And I’m not going anywhere.”
It was the first time she had so directly, so fiercely, declared her commitment. His eyes widened slightly, and then the tension in his shoulders seemed to break. He pulled her into his arms, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a shifting world.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured into her hair.
“You saw me,” she whispered back.“You really saw me.”
That night, he didn’t try to write. They ordered food, watched an old film, and he fell asleep on her sofa, his head in her lap. She sat for a long time, her fingers gently stroking his hair, watching the lines of worry on his face slowly smooth away in sleep.
This was not the grand romance of whispered sonnets in a silent library. This was quieter, messier. It was the romance of showing up, of holding space for the broken pieces, of loving the man not just in his moments of creative brilliance, but in his defeat.
When he left the next morning, looking more rested than he had in weeks, he picked up his notebook from the table. He didn’t open it, but he held it with a new sense of purpose.
“I’ll see you at the library this afternoon,” he said, and it sounded like a vow to himself as much as to her.“The real work can wait. It’s time to go home.”
