The aftermath was not as simple as the act.
In the weeks that followed, the dynamic between us shifted. We had moved past the game of challenge and response. There was something deeper now, something that terrified me more than the prospect of a broken Breguet.
I found myself thinking about Isolde when she wasn't there. I found myself wondering what she was doing at 3:14 PM. I found myself rearranging my schedule—the very foundation of my life—just to make room for her unpredictability.
One evening, after a particularly quiet session of reading in my workshop, Isolde arrived without her usual fanfare. She didn't shout. She didn't tease. She just walked in and sat on the floor, leaning her back against the leg of my workbench.
"My father wants me to move to London," she said quietly.
T
