The airport is chaotic.
Rolling suitcases rattling, announcements echoing, travelers yelling over each other.
I look over at Tilly and smile.
She looks beautiful in her way too big hoodie that I bought last year, hair messy, and the bag she sneakily picked up and thinks I have no idea about it.
I nudge her slightly and put my hand out.
“You good?” she asks, confusion marking her face.
I love how she looks without makeup. She looks beautiful when she’s natural, and I know it’s natural because no one wakes up with a full face.
And Tilly in the morning is just as stunning as the evening.
Every morning, I fall slightly lower for her.
Every night, I realize slightly more why I love her.
“The bag T.”
She glares at me. “You are already carrying so much. Iwantto carry this. I look like a stuck-up brat when you’re walking around with all the baggage, and all I’m carrying is my phone.”
I try to hide my smile because she hates it when I find her amusing, which is all the time.
“I don’t care what other people think, Tilly, and I won't let you carry that bag.”
“You care about what I think, and I think you should let me carry thisonething.”
“Nice try, but no.”
She rolls her eyes and starts taking the bag off her shoulders. “Fine, here you–” she tries to run away, but I grab her waist before she can take a step.
She lets out a tiny scream and starts laughing. “Come on, please?” She gives me my least favorite look, but I don’t relent.
“Your puppy eyes don’t work when it’s about your discomfort.” I take the bag off her shoulder and put it on mine.
Then, I pull her into a hug, and she giggles.
We find a bench near our gate, the world rushing past us, people talking on phones, the faint smell of overpriced coffee, the metallic tang of luggage wheels.
Tilly flops down and puts her legs on mine when I sit down.
“You’re way too calm,” I say, pretending to scold her. “We’re flying to Paris in three hours, and you’re sitting here like we’re going to the grocery store.”
“I’m not calm,” she protests, hiding her hands in the sleeves of her hoodie. “I’m trying not to freak out in public and make it awkward for the people around us.”
I smirk. “Oh, come on, live a little. If anyone looks at you weirdly, tell them you’re going to Paris. They’ll understand. If not, you have me.”
She hits my arm, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you, you mean.”
Her eyes widen, and I laugh at her reaction. “Stop. You’re not allowed to talk like that.”
“I’m allowed to tell my girlfriend I love her because I know she loves it and it makes her heart melt.”
“Talking in third person is such an ick,” she tells me, and I laugh.
