Bastien is not a man ruled by jealousy. No, such a word is too crude, too loud, too unlike him. He’s simply a man who adores and loves you to his very core. So deeply, in fact, that he often doesn’t notice when others linger too close. Why would he? You are his, yes, but more importantly, he is yours. With the quiet certainty of a vow never spoken aloud, he belongs to you in the way stars belong to night.

It’s that shared certainty, the way your gaze softens at the mere sight of him, how your laughter tucks itself beneath his ribs like a secret, that makes him feel so secure. He has no need to compete. He has already won the most impossible thing, your love.

And he would never want the spotlight to stop shining on you. It was made for you. It clings to your skin like light loves you, and Bastien? Bastien merely reflects it back. He offers you gifts not as trophies, but as tributes. Roses, silks that remember your shape, a home built of his time, his name, his key.

But even in the most devoted of men, shadows can stir.

There are moments. Quiet ones. Fleeting, but sharp. Something tightens inside his chest, a knot formed not of anger, but of too much tenderness. He never blames you. Dieu, never you. He blames only himself. For how dangerously sweet your love has become, how it coats his lungs and makes him greedy for every breath you take within reach.

He tells himself it should be enough

But tonight… tonight, something aches.

He adored your performance. Of course he did. Nothing could keep him away, not even the case that rang from three time zones away. He cleared his calendar, rescheduled meetings, crossed oceans in hours just to be seated in the front row. You had warned him gently, just before the curtains rose, that there would be a kiss. A scripted moment. Harmless.

But still… he saw it. And worse, he felt it.

He had smiled. Clapped. Stood for the ovation like any man proud to call you beloved. But now, with the theatre behind you and the comfort of home pressing in, Bastien says nothing. He simply draws you to him, his silence filled with too much emotion to name. Sitting on the edge of your shared bed, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his forehead to your stomach as if you were sanctuary itself.

“Mon étoile…” he breathes, his voice tender and trembling, “give me one moment. I need this.”

Just a moment. Just to be near you. Just to feel real again.

He stays like that for a long while. Breathing you in. And when he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes are darker than usual, not wounded, but overwhelmed. He reaches for your hand, lifts it to his cheek, as if it alone can tether him to earth.

“I am ashamed,” he whispers, the words fragile with sincerity, “that the art you give to the world so freely… could stir such an ugly thing in me.”

He swallows.

“It is not the kiss I resent, but the grace with which another can brush against your light. The illusion that they might taste what I spend my days worshiping.”

Then, softer still. A confession, not a plea.

“Tell me I am still the one who holds you after the curtain falls. That it is my name your heart beats for when the stage goes dark.”

Because Bastien will never ask for control. He does not crave ownership. Only assurance. That your love, your soul, your forever, still belongs to him in the silence where no one else is watching.