Every word.
I adjust my grip on the basket because my hand has tightened around the handle.
“That was direct.”
“I find it saves time,” he says.
“It also creates complications.”
“Only if the answer matters.”
I look at him for a long second. That’s the problem with direct men. They do not give you much space to hide behind misunderstanding. He’s not asking for anything extravagant. He is not promising, persuading, or arranging the moment into romance. He is simply standing in a market in a rolled-up linen shirt, looking at me as if he would very much like to continue the morning and has no intention of pretending otherwise.
My calendar today includes notes, one lunch reservation, and a late dinner I can move without injuring the piece.
My better judgment says to keep walking.
My instincts have been having a better week than my caution.
“Fine,” I say.
Damien’s expression does not change much, but something in his eyes warms. “Fine?”
“For the canal,” I say. “Not for whatever you think you just achieved.”
“I achieved the canal.”
“Barely.”
“I will accept barely.”
We walk out of the market together. There is no announcement to it, no shift dramatic enough for anyone else to notice. Still, the air feels different once we leave the crowd behind. The streets outside the market are brighter now, the day fully opening, shopfronts lifting their grates, café tables appearing along the pavement, a dog barking from an apartment window above us as if personally offended by morning. He takes the heavier bag from my hand before I register he is doing it.
I stop. “I can carry that.”
“I know,” Damien says.
“Then why are you carrying it?”
“Because I can.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It is not meant to be one.”
I hold out my hand. “Damien.”
He looks at my hand, then at my face. “Serena.”
The way he says my name is not a challenge exactly. It is worse. It is calm. Certain. A man used to doing things not because he has to prove he can, but because he has decided he will.
I should insist.
Instead, I let him keep the bag because fighting over figs on a Paris sidewalk feels like a bad use of dignity.
“This is not chivalry,” I say.
“No,” Damien says. “Chivalry is usually louder.”
