Amaya nodded, serious now. “Then stop passing.”
We reached a corner where we had to part ways—Amaya heading toward the canal, me toward the Marais. She squeezed my arm once, firm.
“Text me when you get home,” she said.
I blinked. “Why?”
Amaya’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes sharpened in a way that made my stomach tighten. “Because you’re new,” she said. “And because tonight you looked at art like you wanted it to touch you.”
“That’s not dangerous,” I said, though it sounded weak.
Amaya tilted her head. “In Paris? Everything is dangerous. Even beauty.”
She leaned in, cheek-kissed me, then stepped back. “Bonne nuit, Mila.”
“Bonne nuit,” I echoed.
I walked home alone, the city stretching around me like a living thing. The streets in the Marais were quieter at this hour, but not empty. Couples moved in shadows. A motorbike roared past. Laughter spilled from a bar doorway and vanished as quickly as it came.
My boots clicked on the wet stone.
I kept thinking about Amaya’s words—attention versus intention. Hunger versus patience.
And I kept thinking about Connor Ward.
Not because I’d seen him tonight. I hadn’t.
Because not seeing him felt like absence in a way I didn’t like.
He’d asked if he could come find me after.
He hadn’t.
Maybe it had been a line. Maybe he’d been polite. Maybe he’d said it because he wanted to and then the world got in the way.
Or maybe the world he lived in didn’t allow for simple things like after.
The thought sent warmth skimming low through my stomach, and I hated it.
I wasn’t supposed to want danger. I was supposed to want peace. I’d come to Paris for work, for reinvention, for quiet obligation and art-forward conversations.
Not for a man who made my body feel like a question.
By the time I reached my street, my phone buzzed.
A new message.
My heart jumped stupidly.
It wasn’t Connor.
It was a number I didn’t recognize.
I stopped walking.
The street was empty in both directions, just the muted glow of lamps and the dark outlines of parked cars.
The message was short.
