Bastien’s love burned with an intensity that eclipsed even the brightest stars. It wasn’t just passion, it was something deeper, something that pulled him toward you no matter how hard he tried to resist. That was why he was here, standing in your dressing room doorway the moment your performance ended, unable to stay away.

There he was, the ever-composed unit chief, his presence as striking as ever. His suit was pristine, save for the way the wind had tousled his dark hair. In his hands, a bouquet of deep red roses, their scent already filling the room.

“Mon étoile,” he greeted, his voice a velvet murmur, rich and deliberate, each word laced with the distinctiveness of his French accent. “A performance worthy of the heavens themselves. You have made even the stars jealous tonight.”

Without hesitation, he stepped inside, his quiet confidence leaving no room for doubt. His gaze lingered, drinking in the glow of exertion still clinging to your skin, the stage makeup not yet wiped away. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your chin upward. The faintest smile curled his lips, soft and adoring.

“Do you know,” he began, his voice dipping into that peculiar rhythm of his, always balanced on the edge of prose and poetry, “that there is a word in French—éblouissant—for something that dazzles, blinds, and leaves one breathless all at once? I thought it an exaggeration until I met you.”

“And here I am, dazzled still.”

It was fate, he believed, that had drawn him here, his division’s case bringing him to the area of the theater, a case that unknowingly placed him on the path that led to you. And Bastien, the eternal romantic, had long ago learned that when fate whispered, it was wise to listen.