The streets smell faintly of rain-slicked cobblestones, the city waking up around us.
“Promise me something,” Luca says, tugging me closer as we cross the street.
“What?” I ask, laughing because his dramatic tone is ridiculous.
“That we won’t rush anything today. I don’t want to regret anything.”
“I promise.”
We spin down a narrow alley that leads to the Musée d’Orsay.
The building itself takes my breath away—ornate, golden, enormous, with huge arched windows glowing in the morning sun.
We pause outside, just staring at it.
The world feels like it’s revolving around us, and I feel like I’m in one of those pictures where everything is moving around one person.
I’m slightly scared because once you go too high, there’s a point where you have to fall.
But not as much as usually, because I have someone to fall to, and I know it will ease the pain of the inevitable
Inside, the museum smells of old wood and polished floors, quiet except for the soft padding of our footsteps.
Luca wanders a little ahead, peeking at a sculpture, then turns and holds out his hand like a gentleman. “After you, mademoiselle.”
I take it, feeling a warmth I can’t quite explain, and we stroll through the halls together.
He keeps his promise, making me giggle every second, and I keep mine when I feel the tension slowly disappear in his arm.
Every time I look at him, my chest flutters, this mix of happiness and disbelief that he’s mine.
After the museum, we find a small bridge over the Seine, and go on it hand in hand.
I lean against the railing and feel Luca wrap his arm around me so he’s pressed against my back.
I’m of average size for a woman, neither tall nor short, but he’s significantly taller than me. When we stand next to each other, I barely reach his chin.
“Look at this,” he says.
“It’s perfect. Like something out of a movie.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But the best part is that it’s real. Not a movie or a book, Tilly. Your author must love you.”
He’s not wrong.
A little old man selling postcards waves at us, and Luca buys one when I ask him if we can have a look.
He hands it to me, and I smile. “You didn’t have to buy it.”
“Yeah, I did. Plus, I wanted to. You have another memory to put in your memory box.”
By the time we wander into a tiny boutique chocolate shop, we are both a little tired and very happy. Luca insists I try a chocolate shaped like the Eiffel Tower, and I put a piece into his mouth before tasting it myself.
“You’re supposed to feed me nicely,” he complains, laughing.
“I am being nice,” I say between bites. “You just can’t handle my generosity.”
He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I can handle anything, as long as it’s you.”
