“Pretty sure that’s impossible. You’ll just keep saying every single one is the best.”
“Maybe that’s because I believe in equality,” she says, grinning. “All croissants are created delicious.”
I snort. “That’s not how that works.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous I’m smarterandhungrier.”
“Both those statements are debatable,” I tease, bumping her shoulder lightly.
Her laugh echoes down the narrow street — and something about it makes everything else go quiet.
We find a café tucked between two flower shops, with tiny tables spilling onto the sidewalk.
The waiter speaks in rapid French, and Tilly tries to order in French too, but it turns into complete chaos.
“Deux... uh... café au lait? Et... croissant... de... chocolate?” she tries, squinting at the menu like it personally betrayed her.
I bite my lip to stop from laughing, but fail miserably.
“Stop!” she hisses, smacking my arm. “At least I’m trying!”
The waiter smiles kindly, clearly used to tourists, and corrects her pronunciation before disappearing inside.
When the coffee and pastries arrive, she immediately takes a huge bite and groans. “This is pure delicacy.”
I reach over and wipe a piece off her cheek. “You have something here, Picasso.”
“You could have just told me!”
I grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
She rolls her eyes.
We sit there for a while, sipping our coffee, people-watching.
“You ever get scared moments like these won’t last?” she turns to me after the silence.
“Sometimes, but it’s not completely true. Sure, the moments end, but they always stay here,” I tap my chest.
She smiles at that.
“You’re such a poet, Luca. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I lose control over my tongue when you’re around, so I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’m not complaining.” She grins from across the table.
Her hand brushes mine on the table, and I stroke patterns on her palm.
I watch her watching everything and try looking through her eyes.
Tilly loves small details and notices them almost immediately.
A bike passes us, and I notice she smiles when she sees it’s pink with a butter-yellow bell.
A little girl runs up to her, and I smile when she starts talking with her.
“Hello, beautiful.” Tilly smiles at the girl, and I can't help but admire the scene.
