The flight home feels suspiciously short, like time has folded in on itself.
Maybe because I spend most of it curled up against Luca’s shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep while he hums some random tune—probably made up on the spot—soft and low like a lullaby only I got to hear.
His hoodie smells like sunshine and cinnamon, and every time I stir, he squeezes my hand like he is anchoring me to the moment.
When we land, it feels weirdly bittersweet.
Paris already feels like a dream we woke up from too soon, like we blinked and the cobblestone streets, buttery croissants, and midnight kisses under low-lit bridges have vanished into memory.
But when reality comes crashing back in the most chaotic, wonderful way, I have no complaint.
The whole team is standing in the waiting terminal, and Yana shrieks when she notices us.
Matt sprints toward Luca, “My favorite celebrity couple returns!”
He turns to me with the gravitas of a man demanding justice. “Did you at least bring me a croissant?”
I hand him a crinkly souvenir bag. “No croissants, but here’s a miniature Eiffel Tower. Don’t say I never spoil you.”
“I’m hanging this on my car mirror.”
I laugh and hand out the other souvenirs to the others.
***
That evening, Yana plans a bonfire night on the beach, and I could not imagine a better return.
The sky looks like someone has spilled a watercolor palette across it—orange, pink, a little lavender.
The waves are lazy and gold-edged, like they are tired from being pretty all day.
Someone has already started the fire, and the air smells like toasted marshmallows and sea salt.
Matt is strumming his guitar as it owes him money, and Zara is doubled over laughing.
I nestle beside Luca, pulling my blanket around my legs, the sand cool and clingy between my toes.
The fire flickers like it’s dancing just for us.
“You know,” I say quietly, watching the flames, “it feels weird being back.”
“Weird good or weird bad?” he asks, nudging my knee with his.
“Good weird. Like,everything’s the same, but I’m not.”
He looks at me. “That’s kind of the point of living, isn’t it?”
It’s true.
You grow up, and you learn, but there will always be a place where you can go back to and just relax for a moment.
We roast marshmallows until they are charred and gooey, laugh until our cheeks hurt, and sing off-key toTongue Tied, and I feel nostalgia hit me.
It feels like we have all been puzzle pieces scattered across the map, finally being clicked back into place.
At one point, Luca slips his hoodie over my shoulders, and I’m drowned in the smell of burnt wood, and I love it.
“You’re cold,” he murmurs.
