“She thinks it’s weird to talk in third person, but–” she shuts me up with a kiss, and I smile into her lips.
“Ok, ok, I’ll stop.”
“That’s what I thought,” she pulls away and gives me an amused look.
She looks so happy, and it’s my life goal to make sure that’s how she looks until we are gray and old.
The flight board buzzes overhead, reminding us that Paris is waiting.
I grab her hand, twisting it lightly in mine. “You excited?”
She squeezes back, looking sideways at me with that small, nervous smile I know too well. “Terrified. But also happy. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Terrified is good,” I say, grinning. “Means you care. Also means I get to tease you the entire flight, which is my favorite thing ever.”
“I’m going to scream if you do,” she mutters.
We walk toward the gate together, weaving through the crowd.
I notice the way her hoodie bunches at the sleeves, the soft scuff of her sneakers against the polished floor, the tiny shake in her step when she sees how many people are waiting. I reach out, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Relax, T, I promise we’ll be fine.”
One of the bonuses of knowing everything about Tilly is that I can read her like an open book.
Tilly’s actions speak more easily to me than English ever could.
Once we’re on the plane, she practically claims the window seat, and I couldn't care less, because she was getting it anyway.
I entwine our fingers together, and she rests her head on my shoulder.
The engines roar to life, and I watch her press her forehead to the glass, eyes wide, hair falling into her face.
The plane lifts, and she looks thrilled.
I am convinced her favorite part of the flight is the beginning, when the plane speeds down the line, and the landing, when you feel all your insides go up.
I hate those moments, but it makes it way more berable whena certain blond is practically jumping with joy beside me.
I watch her as her eyes follow the city lights shrinking below us. Her hand is still in mine, her thumb tracing tiny circles over my knuckles.
***
The plane finally touches down with a gentle bump, the landing smooth enough to make my stomach flip once and then settle.
Tilly looks at Paris with tired eyes, but I can see the spark in them.
I reach over, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she smiles at me.
“Welcome to Paris,” I whisper, nudging her shoulder. She lets out a small, sleepy laugh.
“Feels unreal,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against the cool window for a moment longer.
The airport is a blur of lights, rolling suitcases, and people talking in languages I don’t understand.
I guide her through the crowd, holding her hand a little tighter than necessary. She stumbles once, and I catch her under the arm, murmuring a teasing, “Careful, my beautiful traveler.”
By the time we have our luggage and find the taxi line, our shoulders are brushing, and every small movement feels charged.
