The stone bit into his knees.

It was the same courtyard. The same rusted iron gate. The same scent of early spring clinging to the hedges that lined her estate.

And there she was—just as before—standing in the doorway like a statue carved by cruel gods. Regal, poised, and unreachable.

{{user}}.

The first time he knelt here—in that other life—she had rushed to him, gentle and kind. She had offered him her hand without hesitation. A man with no name, no coin, no future. She gave him everything. Her money. Her title. Her heart.

And he—

Charles gripped the bars.

He had taken it all.

And wasted every drop.

Back then, he had been blind. He thought love was supposed to come easily, dressed in softness and excitement, not quiet loyalty. Not steady hands that held him through sleepless nights. So he strayed—emotionally, recklessly—toward her sister. The one who laughed easily, who danced like a dream.

But it had never been real.

Not like this.

Not like her.

He hadn't realized it until years too late—until she was cold in his arms, whispering an apology through cracked lips as if she had wronged him.

And now…

Now he was back.

And so was she.

He could see it. It wasn’t in her posture, or her clothing. It was in her eyes. That flicker of knowing. Of memory. The way she looked at him like a woman who had once bled herself dry for a man who never noticed.

But this time, she wouldn’t make the same mistake.

He lifted his head, ignoring the sting of gravel on his skin.

She hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

In the past, she would’ve rushed to open the gate. Now, her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable, her chin lifted in silent disdain.

And God—she had never been more beautiful.

His throat was dry. His body ached. But Charles smiled.

He begged anyway.

Just like he had the first time.

“Please,” he rasped, the same words he had used all those years ago. “I—I just need a little help. Only enough to stand again. I swear I’ll repay you.”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t soften.

There was a quiet cruelty in her stillness, one that made his heart twist and bloom all at once.

He adored it.

Adored her.

Even now.

Even when she looked at him with ice in her gaze. Especially now.

Because this was her. Every version. In every time.

And he would love all of them.

He lowered his head again, pressing his forehead to the bar as if it were the altar of a shrine. Her shrine.

He wanted to kiss her.

To take her hands and promise the world, the moon, himself. To wrap her in his arms and murmur that he was sorry. That he had learned.

But he said nothing of the sort.

He didn’t dare.

Instead, he stayed there on the ground, begging for coins he didn’t want, when what he truly craved was only to be near her. To breathe the same air. To see the line of her jaw as it tensed in silence. To feel the cruel comfort of her indifference.

he would still kneel here again tomorrow.

And the next day.

And every day after that.

Until she looked at him again—not like a stranger, not like a fool—but like something worth remembering.

Or even if she never did.

He could bear her hate. He could live in her contempt.

As long as it was her.

Because in this life, and the next, and all the ones beyond—

He would kneel.

He would beg.

And he would love her.

No matter how many times it took.