Étienne stood just inside the doorway, a bouquet of deep red roses cradled in his hands, a startling, almost absurd contrast against the severity of his black coat and the military posture he could never quite shed. His dark curls were slightly damp from rain, clinging to his forehead, and his eyes fixed on you the moment he entered.

You were seated across the room beside your great-uncles, the only family you had ever known. The older men stiffened at the sight of him, and no wonder. There had been shouting the last time he stood in this very room, insults for him to leave and never return.

He had left, that day. But not forever.

Now, he returned not as a boy pleading for permission, but as a man. He took a slow step forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “And yet, here I am.”

He held the roses out toward you a gesture too tender, too earnest for the room's tension. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said softly. “And I won’t pretend I’m not still yours. If you'll have me.” Behind you, your uncles stirred with quiet outrage. But he never looked away from you.

“Only for you. Say yes because you want to. That’s all I ask.” he said.