She had a way of moving through the world that made you want to follow. Not in a predatory way. In a gravitational way. Like she was pulling light toward her without even trying.
And her eyes—Christ, her eyes. Dark, expressive, the kind that held weight without demanding anything in return. She looked at things like they mattered. Like every shadow and reflection and in-between moment deserved attention.
She made beauty look effortless. Like she didn't know what she really looked like. Like she'd never stood in front of a mirror and cataloged her own power.
I admired that. More than I wanted to admit.
The invitation to the art showing came from the paint shop owner. He handed it to me on a Thursday afternoon, folding the card into my bag with the same care he used when wrapping canvases.
"You should go," he said in accented English. "Good people. Good wine."
I almost said no. Art showings weren't my scene. Too many bodies, too many exits to track, too much noise.
But something made me say yes.
Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was the boredom. Maybe it was the nagging hope that she'd be there.
And she was.
I spotted her across the room the moment I walked in. She stood near a painting, head tilted, studying it like it held answers she was still working out. The candlelight softened her features, made her look younger, more open.
I moved toward her without thinking, drawn by the same pull I'd been fighting for weeks.
When I got close enough, I said her name.
"Mila."
She turned, surprise flickering across her face before it settled into something more measured. Recognition. Curiosity.
"Connor," I added, because I hadn't introduced myself before. Because I wanted her to know.
"Connor," she repeated, testing it. Her mouth curved slightly, like she approved. "You've been following me."
"Coincidence," I said, though we both knew it wasn't.
"Is it?"
"Paris is smaller than it looks."
She smiled at that, a real one, and something in my chest loosened. "Why are you in town?" she asked.
"Vacation."
"Vacation," she echoed, skeptical. "You don't seem like the vacation type."
"What type do I seem like?"
She studied me, her gaze moving over my face, my shoulders, the way I stood. Assessing. "The kind who doesn't stop moving."
I almost laughed. She wasn't wrong.
"What about you?" I asked. "Why Paris?"
"Photography residency," she said. "Twelve months. I'm three weeks in."
"You like it?"
"I'm still deciding."
