(Yvette POV)
I didn't expect my hands to tremble.
That was the most unsettling part.
I had imagined—no, prepared—for a hundred different reactions to seeing Joseph again. Shock. Pain. Resentment. Even anger. I had rehearsed those emotions in my head during sleepless nights, convincing myself that if the moment ever came, I would be ready.
But none of those emotions appeared.
Instead, my heart had done something far more dangerous.
It had stirred.
I sat on the edge of my bed that evening, coat still draped over the chair, my bag untouched on the floor where I had dropped it. Paris glowed faintly beyond the window, lights flickering like distant stars, but my mind was still stuck in that café—on the way Joseph had looked up when he saw me, surprise softening his sharp features.
That look hadn't belonged to my memories.
It belonged to now.
"The Joseph in my memory and the Joseph in front of me weren't the same," I murmured quietly. "And neither am I."
