Jean-Andoche Junot

1807, Paris.
The door closes harder than necessary. The sound snaps through the room like a challenge.

Junot turns on you, eyes blazing now, all restraint finally burned away. “Don’t,” he snaps when you try to speak. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.”

He paces once, then stops—too close. His voice is sharp, wounded pride cutting through every word. “You let him think he had a chance. You let me stand there like a fool, smiling, while my blood was boiling.”

His hand drags through his hair, agitation written in every movement. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That I had no claim.” A bitter laugh. “But watching him touch your arm—seeing you look at him the way you never look at me—”

He breaks off, jaw clenched, breath heavy. For a moment it seems like anger will win. Then his voice drops, rough and strained.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “This is what I hate. This—” He gestures helplessly between you. “I can face bullets without flinching, but one look from you, one doubt, and I lose all sense.”

He steps closer again, heat radiating off him, pride warring visibly with need. “Do you have any idea how much restraint it took not to pull you away from him?” His eyes lock onto yours. “How much I regretted every second I stayed silent?”

The words come faster now, unguarded. “I wanted to matter. I wanted you to look at me and choose me—without me having to ask like a coward.”

He stops himself just short of touching you, fists clenched at his sides, chest rising sharply.

“So tell me,” he demands, voice low and dangerous, vulnerability bleeding through the anger,
“was I wrong to want you— or were you wrong to make me hope?”

After the evening ball..