But underneath the small talk, tension built. Not uncomfortable tension—more like the gathering of courage, both of them circling toward the real conversation they needed to have.
When they’d finished eating, Delphine helped him clear the table. They worked in companionable silence, moving aroundeach other in the small kitchen with the easy coordination of people becoming familiar. She washed while he dried, her hands submerged in soapy water, his tea towel working over plates that didn’t really need the extra attention.
“You don’t have to be so careful,” she said, glancing at him.
“With the dishes?”
“With me.”
He set down the plate and met her gaze. “I know.”
“Do you?” She pulled the plug, letting water drain with a hollow gurgle. “Because you’ve been treating me like I might shatter since the other night. And I understand why—we went through something intense. But I’m okay, Bastien. I’m not fragile.”
“I know you’re not fragile.” He handed her a towel for her hands. “I’ve seen you be brave and brilliant and fierce. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be treated carefully. Carefully isn’t the same as fragile.”
She dried her hands slowly, considering this. “Okay. That’s fair.”
They moved to the living room. Bastien took the armchair—old leather, worn comfortable by decades of use. Delphine settled on the couch, tucking one leg underneath her, wine glass in hand. The lamplight caught the pale liquid, turning it to warm gold.
For a moment, neither spoke. The apartment around them was quiet except for street sounds filtering through the windows—distant music, occasional laughter, the ambient noise of a city that never quite slept.
Delphine set down her wine glass with careful precision and looked at him directly.
“I need to ask something,” she said. “And I need you to be honest.”
“All right.”
“When you look at me, who do you see?”
Her question landed with weight. Bastien took a moment to formulate his answer, wanting to get this right. This was the question she’d been building toward all week. The core fear underneath everything else.
“I see you,” he said carefully. “Delphine. Not Charlotte. Not Delia. You. The bond let me recognize you—your resonance, and the sense of knowing you before we’d spoken. But everything since then has been learning you specifically. Your terrible jokes about archival mold. The way you alphabetize by first name instead of last. How you look at primary sources like they’re treasure maps. The way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking hard. Or tap the end of your pencil when you’re taking notes . . .”
Delphine’s eyes were bright, focused entirely on his face. In the lamplight, he could see the intensity of her attention—the way she parsed every word, testing it for truth or evasion.
“But how can you know that’s real?” she asked. “That it’s not just the bond telling you what to feel?”
“Because I could walk away,” Bastien said simply. “The bond preserves connection. It doesn’t compel proximity. If I were here only because it demanded it, I’d be miserable. Resentful. But I’m not. I’m here because I want to be. With you.Thisversion of you. Every version of you.”
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. Her finger traced the rim of her wine glass—absent gesture, something to do with her hands while her mind worked.
“I saw everything,” she said finally. “Gideon’s editing. But also the real moments underneath. And I realized—you’ve been terrified this whole time. Not of me. But of repeating past mistakes.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “That’s accurate.”
“So when you’re careful with me. When you offer me exits and second-guess yourself—that’s not manipulation. That’s trauma.”
The observation was uncomfortable in its accuracy. Bastien shifted in the chair, leather creaking under his weight. “I suppose so.”
Delphine leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on her knees. “Then here’s what I want. I want to try this. Us. Dating. Properly. Like normal people. Coffee and dinner and getting to know each other without supernatural crises.”
Something loosened in Bastien’s chest—a tension he’d been carrying so long he’d stopped noticing it. “Normal, boring dating.”
“Exactly.” She smiled, and the smile transformed her face from serious to radiant. “Think you can handle that?”
“I think I’d like to try.”
They talked for another hour, the conversation wandering through easier territory now that the difficult question had been asked and answered. What normal dating would look like. Whether they should attempt cooking together or stick to restaurants for now. Her confession that she was a terrible cook— “I once set pasta on fire, don’t ask how” —and his admission that he’d learned to cook somewhere around 1850 out of sheer necessity.
