"Whatever I decide—promise me we'll be okay. Even if we're not together. Promise me we'll still be okay."
Jake wanted to promise. Wanted to say that of course they'd be okay, that love conquered all, that everything would work out.
But he couldn't. Because he didn't know if that was true.
"I promise I'll try," Jake finally said. "That's the best I can do."
Lucy curled into him, and they fell asleep still dressed, too exhausted by the weight of decision to do anything but hold each other.
Tomorrow they'd have to face reality. But tonight, they could pretend that love was enough.
Even when they both knew it might not be.
The next morning, Lucy woke to find Jake already awake, watching her.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked.
"A while. Jet lag."
"What time is it?"
"Almost seven. Sorry—I know you usually sleep later now."
Lucy smiled. "I do. Sleeping until seven feels like luxury after six months of 4:45 AM wake-ups."
They lay there for a moment, neither quite ready to start the day and face the decisions waiting for them.
"I want to show you something," Lucy finally said. "Get dressed. Bring comfortable shoes."
An hour later, they were walking through the Marais market—a outdoor market that popped up twice a week, full of fresh produce, cheese, bread, and flowers.
"This is where I shop," Lucy explained, stopping at a vegetable stand. She greeted the vendor in French, chatted about the tomatoes, selected several along with fresh herbs.
Jake watched as Lucy moved through the market with ease—knowing which vendors to visit, how to select the best ingredients, how to navigate the crowd. This was her market. Her neighborhood. Her life.
"You're really good at this," Jake observed. "The French. The market. All of it."
"I've been here six months. You pick things up."
They stopped at a fromagerie, where Lucy bought three different cheeses she explained to Jake in detail. Then a boulangerie for bread. Then the flower stand, where Lucy bought sunflowers "just because they make me happy."
"What are we making?" Jake asked, carrying Lucy's market bags.
"Lunch. Classic French, but with my own spin. You'll see."
Back at Lucy's apartment, she cooked while Jake watched. She made a salade niçoise with local tuna and the tomatoes from the market. Fresh bread with the cheeses. A simple vinaigrette she whisked together without measuring.
"This is what I love about French cooking," Lucy said as she worked. "It's about the ingredients, the technique, but also the intention. Every meal is meant to be savored, not rushed."
"Very different from pork buns at 4:45 AM."
"So different. At the bakery, everything was about efficiency. Making as much as possible, as fast as possible, to serve as many customers as possible. Here—" Lucy gestured to their simple lunch, "—it's about quality. About taking time."
They ate on Lucy's balcony (barely big enough for two chairs), looking out at Paris.
"I could get used to this," Jake said.
"Could you? Really? Living in Paris, navigating French bureaucracy, being far from everyone you know?"
