(Joseph POV)
I woke to a dull ache behind my eyes.
It wasn't pain exactly—more like the aftermath of something heavy pressing down on my consciousness and only just lifting. My thoughts felt disjointed, drifting in and out like fragments of a dream I couldn't quite grasp.
The first thing I noticed was warmth.
My fingers were tangled with someone else's, slender and cool against my palm. That simple sensation grounded me more than anything else.
Slowly, I opened my eyes.
The room was unfamiliar at first—the muted lighting, the drawn curtains, the faint glow of the city beyond the glass. A hotel room. Memory stirred sluggishly.
Dinner.
Wine.
Dianne.
My jaw tightened instinctively.
But when I turned my head—
Yvette.
She was sitting on a chair beside the bed, her posture slightly slumped in exhaustion. Her other hand rested on her lap while one remained firmly clasped around mine. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, no longer styled the way it always was during board meetings. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, evidence of a sleepless night.
She was here.
Relief flooded me so suddenly that my chest tightened.
"Yvy…" I murmured, voice hoarse.
Yvette startled, her head snapping up. For a split second, she looked disoriented—then her eyes focused on him.
"You're awake," she said softly.
I watched her carefully as she leaned forward, concern written plainly across her face. There was no accusation there. No expectation. Just worry.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
He swallowed. "Like I got hit by a truck."
That earned me a small, tired smile.
"That's… not surprising." she replied.
I tightened my grip around her hand unconsciously. "You stayed."
Yvette didn't pull away. "Of course I did."
Something warm unfurled in my chest—slow, steady, undeniable.
Fragments of the night returned in flashes.
Dianne's voice.
The wine burning down my throat.
A sudden dizziness.
Hands on me that felt wrong.
A deep, suffocating panic—
And then—
Yvette.
Her voice cutting through the haze.
Her touch steady, grounding.
Her name on my lips like a plea.
I closed my eyes briefly.
"I remember you," I said quietly. "Even when everything else was… broken. I knew it was you."
Yvette's fingers stilled.
"You were delirious," she said gently. "You kept calling my name."
"I wasn't confused," I replied.
Her breath hitched, just barely.
Silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken things.
My gaze traced her face—features I had known for years, yet suddenly saw with terrifying clarity. The curve of her lips when she frowned in concern. The way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks. The quiet strength in her eyes.
When did she stop being just my little sister?
No.
The truth struck I with ruthless precision.
She had never been just that.
He had simply been too much of a coward to name it.
I exhaled slowly.
"Yvette," I said, voice low, steady. "Did anything… happen?"
Her eyes searched mine. "No. Nothing happened. You weren't well. I wouldn't—"
"I know," I interrupted softly. "That's not what I meant."
I shifted slightly, wincing as my head throbbed. "Dianne… she was there. I remember pulling away. I remember feeling like I was drowning."
My jaw clenched.
"And then I remember you. Holding my hand. Telling me to breathe."
Yvette looked away.
"I didn't want to leave you like that," she said. "You weren't safe."
I tightened my grip, gently but firmly, forcing her to look back at me.
"I was safe," I said. "Because you were there."
Her eyes shimmered, but she didn't speak.
That was when it happened.
The realization didn't arrive like lightning—it settled into I like something that had always been waiting.
The warmth.
The certainty.
The unbearable fear of losing her.
I had loved Yvette for a long time.
Not as a brother.
Not as an obligation.
But as a man loves a woman—quietly, selfishly, desperately.
And I had almost let her walk away.
"I don't want to pretend anymore," I said finally.
Yvette's breath caught. "I—"
"I love you." The words left I without hesitation.
"I've been lying to myself for years, calling it protection, responsibility, habit. But it's love. It's always been love." I continued.
Yvette froze.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
I continued, my voice firm despite the storm raging inside him.
"When I thought you were leaving… when I woke up and imagined the bed empty—" I shook my head. "That fear? I've never felt anything like it."
I swallowed hard. "I don't want a life where you're not beside me."
Tears slipped down Yvette's cheeks silently.
"You're engaged," she whispered.
"I won't be," I replied without hesitation. "Not for long"
That startled her.
I sat up slowly, ignoring the lingering dizziness.
"I will end it," I said. "Properly. Cleanly. No excuses."
Her eyes widened. "I, it's not that simple. Dianne—your father—"
"My father wanted this, me choosing you." I interrupted. "He always did. I just refused to see it."
I let out a bitter laugh. "He trusted me to take care of you. And I failed."
Yvette shook her head weakly. "You didn't—"
"I did," I said quietly. "By letting you believe you had no place by my side."
I reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek with my thumb, careful—as if afraid she might vanish.
"I won't make that mistake again."
Yvette's voice trembled. "What if I don't want to be won?"
I smiled softly.
"Then I'll spend my life proving that I'm worthy anyway."
I took a deep breath, resolve settling into my bones.
"I'll end the engagement. I'll face the fallout. I don't care what it costs me."
My gaze burned with quiet determination.
"I'm choosing you."
For the first time since waking up in the unfamiliar room, I felt something close to peace.
The night that shouldn't have happened had given me something I could no longer deny.
And this time—
I would not let Yvette walk away.
(Yvette's POV)
I didn't plan to stay.
I only meant to make sure he was safe.
That was what I told myself as I stood frozen at the doorway, watching Joseph lie sprawled across the hotel bed, his breaths uneven, his brows knitted tightly as if even sleep offered him no mercy.
But then he spoke.
"Yvy…"
My heart lurched.
His voice was hoarse, broken, stripped of the composure he always wore like armor. He shifted restlessly, fingers curling into the sheets as if searching for something he was afraid to lose.
But he was still asleep. He was talking in his sleep.
"Don't go," he whispered. "Please… don't leave me."
The words struck deeper than I was prepared for.
I moved before I could think.
I sat by the bed and took his hand, warm and trembling beneath my fingers.
"I'm here," I said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
The moment the words left my mouth, his composure shattered.
Joseph sobbed.
Not quietly. Not gracefully.
His chest heaved, breath hitching as tears spilled freely from eyes that had always seemed so strong, so controlled. He turned his face toward me blindly, clutching my hand like a lifeline.
"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry, Yvy."
My throat tightened.
"Joseph…?" I whispered, confused. "Why are you apologizing?"
He shook his head weakly, eyes still closed, words tumbling out like he had been holding them back for years.
"I was horrible," he said. "I was cold. I was cruel. I didn't see you. I didn't protect you. That man in my dream—he wasn't me. He can't be me. I'm not like that."
My breath caught.
Dream.
My grip on his hand tightened involuntarily.
"If you let me," he continued desperately, "I'll prove it. I'll show you I'm different. I'll love you properly. Completely. I swear it."
Something inside me snapped.
Years—a lifetime—of pain surged to the surface, hot and unforgiving.
"You don't get to say that so easily," I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay calm.
Joseph whimpered softly, as if sensing the shift in my tone.
"I loved you," I continued, the words tearing their way out of me. "I loved you so much that I forgot how to love myself. I clung to you even when you pushed me away. I stayed in that marriage because of our son—because I believed that if I endured long enough, you would finally see me."
My vision blurred.
"My whole world was him," I whispered. "And you were his world."
Joseph's breathing hitched violently.
"And then that night…" My voice broke. "When the fire broke out at the hotel. When everything was chaos. You chose her."
His fingers tightened around mine.
"You saved Dianne," I said, tears spilling freely now. "And you let me fall."
The words felt like knives leaving my mouth.
"I died believing I was never enough."
Joseph let out a sound so raw it barely sounded human. He woke up still groggy but now awake. I do not know if he heard everything I had said, but he was still crying.
"No," he sobbed. "No—please—Yvy, that wasn't me. I swear to you. I would never—never—do that to you. Not in this life. Not ever again."
I am not sure who the him he was mentioning. Maybe he heard me and thought I had been speaking of a different person.
He struggled to sit up, still weak, still trembling, pressing his forehead against my arm as if begging for absolution.
"I'm sorry," he repeated over and over. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how, but I swear I'll never hurt you like that. Please believe me."
I cried with him.
For the woman I used to be.
For the love I buried with her.
For the child I lost.
Even if the one that was apologizing was not the Joseph of the past, not the husband I had married. I felt that his apology had reached the old me.
When the storm finally quieted, I drew a shaky breath and looked down at him.
"Then promise me something," I said.
He lifted his head, eyes red, glassy, terrified of my answer.
"If you really are different," I said slowly, "then let me walk my own path. Let me live the life I chose in this lifetime. Don't cage me with guilt or duty or regret."
I swallowed.
"Stay by my side if you want. Support me if you mean it. But don't trap me."
Joseph nodded immediately, fiercely.
"I promise," he said without hesitation. "I'll walk beside you. Not ahead of you. Not above you. I'll support you—even if the path you choose isn't with me."
My chest ached at the sincerity in his voice.
Then, softly—almost fearfully—he said the words he never once said to me in that life.
"I love you."
The world went quiet.
I broke.
Tears poured from my eyes as years of longing, resentment, grief, and love crashed together. Joseph pulled me into his arms, holding me like I might shatter if he loosened his grip.
"I'm here," he murmured against my hair. "I've got you."
I didn't say it back.
I couldn't.
But when I lifted my face and met his gaze—raw, honest, vulnerable—I leaned forward and kissed him.
It was gentle. Hesitant. Nothing like passion.
But it was real.
And when our lips parted, something between us had irrevocably changed.
This was no longer just the bond of siblings.
No longer the shadow of a broken marriage.
This was the beginning of something dangerous, fragile, and entirely new.
And for the first time since my regression—
I didn't feel alone.