The train slid out of St Pancras under a wash of pale sunlight, and for the first time in years, Isabelle felt completely free. No school runs, no alarms, no expectations. Just the steady hum of the tracks and Robert beside her, watching her as though she were the only thing in motion.
He didn't look like the man from the office. The tie was gone, his shirt open at the throat, the faint shadow of stubble softening his jaw. There was an ease to him — a looseness that felt new, almost boyish — and it made her chest ache in ways she was yet to name.
They didn't speak much during the journey. Words felt unnecessary. Sometimes he reached across and brushed his thumb against her hand, his touch quiet and sure. Sometimes she smiled without meaning to. Every so often, he caught her gaze, and the air seemed to still around them, suspended in something both fragile and certain.
By the time they reached Paris, the afternoon light had turned golden. She found herself laughing as he fumbled with directions outside Gare du Nord.
"Don't tell me," she teased. "You've booked a trip to Paris and don't actually know where we're going?"
He gave her a rueful grin. "I know where we're going. I just… prefer to find it without a map."
"You mean you're lost."
"I'm —" he paused, grin widening, "creatively exploring."
Her laughter echoed between the stone façades, light and unguarded; and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt weightless.
He hadn't realised how much of his life had been lived in greyscale until now.
Isabelle, walking beside him through narrow Parisian streets — sunlight catching on her hair, her cheeks flushed from the warmth — was the closest thing to beauty and vibrancy he'd seen in years.
They wandered through the Marais, stopping for coffee at a small corner café where the tables were barely big enough for their cups. She leaned back in her chair, eyes half-closed in the sun, and he thought he could spend a lifetime just watching her like that.
"This doesn't feel real," she said softly, without opening her eyes.
"It's real," he replied. "Every second of it."
Later, they walked by the river, the Seine glinting like molten glass beneath the bridges. Street musicians played low, soulful notes that drifted into the evening air. She paused by the railing, the breeze lifting the hem of her dress, her hand trailing absently along the stone.
Something inside him tightened — not the sharp ache of fear this time, but the quiet, overwhelming gratitude of having found her.
When she turned and smiled at him, he knew he was gone. And for once, it didn't scare him.
That night, after dinner in a quiet restaurant tucked behind the Palais Royal, they walked back through the dimly lit streets. Paris shimmered around them — reflections in wet cobblestones, laughter spilling from open doorways, the scent of wine and rain hanging in the air.
Robert's hand brushed hers. She didn't hesitate before threading her fingers through his. He looked down, as if the simple act surprised him. Then he squeezed her hand once — gentle, steady, certain.
They crossed Pont Neuf in silence, the city stretched out like a painting below.
"This feels…" she began, then stopped, the words caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief.
"Right?" he offered quietly.
She nodded, smiling shyly, unable to trust her voice.
When they reached the other side of the bridge, he stopped walking. The streetlights caught the edge of his profile — thoughtful, uncertain — a man holding back something too large to contain.
"Isabelle," he said, and her heart fluttered at the sound of her name — careful, reverent. "There's something I need to tell you."
He'd rehearsed it in his head a dozen times, but standing there with her eyes on him, the words came out raw, unguarded.
"I tried not to feel this," he began. "From the moment I realised what was happening between us, I told myself it couldn't work. I put space between us. I thought I was protecting you. Protecting me."
She said nothing, only watched him — the lamplight turning her eyes to glowing amber.
"But somewhere along the way," he went on, voice low, "you slipped past every defence I had. You broke down walls I didn't even know I'd built. You just… became part of me, a part I can't live without."
He stepped closer, his breath unsteady. "You make me want to be someone better, Isabelle. Not because you expect it — but because you already believe I can be."
Her eyes shimmered. He hesitated, then whispered, "I love you. God help me, I love you."
The world seemed to pause — the hum of traffic distant, the city holding its breath.
Then he dropped to one knee and pulled out a small velvet box. Her hands flew to her mouth as he opened it.
"Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?" he said softly. "I want to wake beside you, walk beside you, build a life with you — every day from this one forward. I know it's soon, but my heart's certain. I hope you feel the same."
Her breath caught. She reached down, her fingers trembling, and touched his cheek. "Robert," she whispered, her lips lifting into a smile. "I love you too. Yes — Yes."
She didn't know which of them moved first — only that suddenly he was there, his hands at her waist, her palms against his chest, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that felt like a vow.
When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he murmured.
"Stop," she whispered. "I know exactly who you are."
He slid the ring onto her finger — it was simple and elegant, catching the light like it was a star sitting on her finger.
His eyes closed as if something inside him had finally, finally melted away. "You've already made me the happiest man alive," he said softly. "And I swear to you, I'll spend the rest of my life making you happy, Isabelle."
They walked back to the hotel hand in hand through quiet streets. She realised she hadn't felt this peaceful — this certain — in years.
The next morning, they wandered through Montmartre, past flower stalls and art shops spilling colour into the streets. He watched her linger over paintings, touch the corners of postcards, laugh at a caricature drawn too quickly. Every small thing she did fascinated him — the tilt of her head, the warmth in her voice, the way she said merci in her soft, careful French.
When they reached the steps below Sacré-Cœur, she paused to catch her breath. He brushed his fingers against hers. "Tired?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said, smiling. "Just taking it all in."
They sat together, looking out over the city. He wanted to tell her everything — about his past, the guilt he carried, the failed marriage, the years he'd spent alone, convinced he wasn't capable of love. But she seemed to understand without words. She always had.
"You make it easy to forget the past," he said quietly, putting his arm around her.
She leaned against his shoulder. "Maybe it's not about forgetting," she murmured. "Maybe it's about being ready to begin again."
He kissed the top of her head. Yes, he thought. That's exactly what it is.
That evening, they dined by the river — candlelight flickering, the air soft with music and warmth. She couldn't stop smiling.
"Do you ever think," she said, tracing the ring on her finger, "how strange it is that after everything — all the wrong turns, all the years — we ended up here?"
He nodded. "Every day."
"And does it scare you?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But it's also the first thing that's ever made sense."
She reached across the table, brushing her fingers against his hand. "Then maybe," she said, "we stop being scared."
His gaze softened. "I'm all in."
"So am I," she whispered.
Later, as they walked back beneath the soft glow of streetlamps, he pulled her close to him.
"Promise me something," he murmured.
"What?"
"Don't ever let me start building walls again."
She smiled through the shimmer in her eyes. "Never. If you do, I'll just break them down again."
He laughed quietly, kissed her right there and thought that if the world stopped turning right then, he would die happier than he'd ever been.
That night, lying beside him, she watched the light from the street fall across his face. He was already half asleep, his hand resting lightly against her hip, his breathing slow and steady.
She'd never felt safer. Or more loved.
For the first time in years, she wasn't looking backward or forward. She was simply here.
When he stirred, she whispered, "Robert?"
He opened one eye, drowsy. "Hmm?"
"I love you."
A faint, sleepy smile curved his lips. "Say it again."
So she did — again, and again — until the words melted into the dark like a promise neither of them would ever forget.