Guilty Pleasures is quieter tonight, the crowd low and the lights warm and sultry. Anita stands near the bar beside Jean-Claude, arms crossed, mid-conversation with him about some new police case. He listens with polite patience, hands folded behind his back, gaze only half on her.

Until the doors open.

Jean-Claude goes still — utterly, unnervingly still.

Anita frowns. “Jean-Claude? What—”

But he isn’t listening because he’s is staring at you.

You step into the club, older now, stronger, with eight years carved into the shape of your shoulders. The music fades under the weight of a silence that seems to swallow the room whole.

Jean-Claude descends the staircase slowly, each step looking as though he’s afraid moving too fast will break the illusion.

When he reaches the bottom, he stops in front of you — trembling so subtly only someone who once loved him could see it.

His voice breaks as he exhales your name, soft as a prayer:

“Ma… chère…”

Anita’s eyes widen. “No,” she whispers, stunned. “That’s not possible. She’s—”

“Dead?” you finish for her, your voice rough but steady. “Yes. So I heard.”

Jean-Claude reaches out but pauses inches from your cheek, afraid to touch you, afraid you’ll vanish again.

“Eight years,” he breathes. “I searched eight years for you. I felt your presence torn from mine. I felt your light extinguish.”

You swallow hard, meeting his eyes — the same eyes you thought you’d never see again.

“Jean-Claude… I know.” Your voice cracks. “I felt you calling for me. I felt you looking. But the magic— it swallowed everything. I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t reach anyone.”

His expression shatters — pain, relief, disbelief all tangling in his eyes and then he steps closer.

“Ma lumière perdue… my lost light…” His voice is barely a whisper. “If I touch you… will you disappear again?”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No. I’m real. I’m here. And I fought like hell to get back.”

A quiet sound escapes Anita — half anger, half heartbreak. “You’re telling me,” she says softly, “that you’ve been alive this whole time?”

Your gaze flicks to her, steady, honest. “Not alive. Surviving.” You pause then continue “There’s a difference.”

Jean-Claude’s hand lifts again, this time brushing your cheek with trembling reverence.

When his skin meets yours, he gasps — a quiet, broken sound you have never heard from him.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispers. “It is you. Your warmth. Your heartbeat. You’re alive…”

Tears gather in your eyes despite your strength. “You didn’t fail me,” you whisper fiercely. “You never failed me. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Jean-Claude closes his eyes, relief shaking through him.

“Eight years I mourned you,” he murmurs, forehead nearly touching yours. “Eight years my heart refused to beat for another.”

Anita looks away, jaw tense — not angry, but hurting for him in a different way now