Still, I loved you

Paris, 10 Years Later

Ryder’s POV

Ten years. A lifetime I spent trying to extinguish the fire she couldn’t handle. A decade since she chose his steady, predictable Earth over my desperate, unreliable flame. And yet here I am, waiting for her.

Standing under chandeliers made of blown glass and gold, surrounded by canvases soaked in color and emotion, waiting for the woman I never stopped loving to appear like a brushstroke in motion.

Her gallery—Jasmine A. Alden: Firelight & Bloom—was the main event of Pari’s art week. Her gallery was the masterpiece, but I was here for the failure. I was here to prove that even ten years of discipline and distance couldn’t scrub the color of her from my soul. I was here to ruin two lives: hers and mine.

Critics were already calling it a masterpiece. Collectors stood in hushed awe, holding champagne like it was a sacrament.

But I wasn’t here for the art.

I was here for her.

Then she walked in.

And the entire room... exhaled.

Jasmine drifted across the floor, a vision of quiet grace. She wore that same nervous tic—a faint touch to her pearl necklace—that she had the night I first told her I loved her. She was a woman anchored now, but her eyes still held galaxies... and I was still desperate to drown in them Her hair was longer now, darker. Glossy waves framed a face that hadn’t aged, only deepened. She wore emerald, green silk, off-the-shoulder, the color of temptation and triumph.

And her smile... God help me.

That smile could still set fire to the part of me I swore I’d buried.

Beside her was Ethan. Taller, scruffier, still annoyingly good-looking. And yet... he didn’t diminish her. He didn’t compete. He just existed in her orbit like he was made to. A man who knew he’d won the rarest woman in the room—and was wise enough to hold her gently.

Their boys trailed behind them, laughing.

One with his mother’s honey-brown eyes. The other with his father’s smirk.

Luca and Elias, I’d heard. Five and eight. Spirited, sun-soaked boys who looked like they were raised on love and fresh paint.

Ethan leaned down and whispered something to Jasmine. She laughed—tilting her head, touching his chest lightly—and I felt it.

That same ache.

The one that never left.

She spotted me across the room and froze, just for a second.

Then her face broke open into a light I hadn’t seen in years.

Jasmine: “Ryder?”

I hadn’t heard her voice in so long, but it still slipped into my chest like silk.

She moved toward me, and I swear the floor shifted.

When she hugged me, her perfume hit like memory—sweet lemon, jasmine, a hint of flowers. I let myself hold her for half a second too long. My fingers didn’t forget the feel of her spine. Neither did my heartbeat.

Me (low, half-smiling): “Still stealing every spotlight in the room, huh?”

Jasmine (laughing): “Still giving every poet, a reason to write badly.”

She pulled back, and for one wild moment—I almost kissed her cheek. Almost. But then Ethan appeared beside her and held out his hand.

I shook it. Firm. Respectful. That’s what we were now—men who shared a history that never needed to be spoken aloud.

Ethan (grinning): “Glad you made it. Jas was hoping you’d come.”

I looked at her again. She was scanning the crowd, not for buyers—but for reactions. She wanted connection, not approval. She always had.

And when she found someone crying in front of one of her paintings, she smiled like she’d just won her purpose again.

The boys ran over. Luca, the eldest, reached for Jasmine’s hand. Elias bumped into my leg, blinked up at me, then said:

Elias: “Are you the guy Uncle Chase said would bring snacks?”

I nearly choked laughing.

Me: “Yeah, that’s me, kid. Always snacks. Always trouble.”

They dragged Ethan away to look at the painting titled “Home Isn’t a Place”, leaving me standing beside her.

Alone. Again. Like always.

She glanced at me sideways.

Jasmine (softly): “You’re still not married?”

Me: “Still not over you.”

It was a dangerous thing to say. But she didn’t flinch.

She just sighed. Deep. Sad. Understanding.

Jasmine (quietly): “You were always fire. But I needed someone who could be the earth."

And there it was.

The truth that still cracked open something in me every time.

We walked together, slow. She pointed out her favorite pieces, told me which ones Ethan had titled. I watched her speak to collectors like a queen—gracious, fierce, intentional.

Every man in the room noticed her. But only one could touch her. And he already had her heart.

Still, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t twist something in me. To know I once held the brush that painted her smile. And now I was just a footnote in her legend.

At the far end of the gallery was her final piece.

It was called “The Color I Couldn’t Keep.”

It was a portrait.

Of me.

Unfinished. Blurry around the edges. But unmistakably me.

My throat tightened.

Me (barely breathing): “You kept me?”

She didn’t look at me.

Jasmine: “I don’t let go of things I learned from.”

And with that, she walked away.

Back to her husband. To her sons. To the life I couldn’t give her—but always knew she deserved.

I stayed long after they left. Until the lights dimmed. Until the crowd faded.

I stood in front of that painting, staring at the version of me she saw—the man who once almost had her. The man who still does, in pieces.

And as the lights flickered, I smiled.

Not with bitterness. Not with regret.

But with awe.

Because some people don’t get a happy ending. They get a front-row seat to someone else’s masterpiece.

And Jasmine Alden? She was the masterpiece.

Painted by time. Framed in love. And still burning in the colors I’ll never forget.