She huffed a laugh, trying to shake it off. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that,” I countered instantly, leaning back, letting my gaze roam over her like a man marking territory, “but you are the only woman who makes me want to be exactly that.”
Her lips pressed into a line, but the slightest twitch betrayed her, betraying that she was thinking about everything I’d just said—and not pushing me entirely away this time.
I let that silence stretch, comfortable, electric, and thought. She came here to learn. To grow. To understand herself.
And me? I’d come to challenge her. Test her. Tease her. Push her.
Because she was everything I didn’t know how to resist.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I let the pause stretch a beat longer than polite, watching her carefully. Then, with the faintest tilt of my head, I leaned in slightly, voice low and easy. “So… tell me about Paris. You’ve been running all around the city. What have you discovered on your own?”
Her eyes flicked up, caught a little off guard. She blinked, then smirked faintly. “Running all around? That’s funny, cause sometimes it does feel like I have to keep running. Though, I’m not sure it’s flattering.”
I let the words hang just long enough for her to squirm under the attention. “Flattery’s nothing compared to curiosity,” I said. “Come on, I want details. Streets, cafés, alleys, rooftops—show me Paris through your eyes.”
She hesitated, fingering the rim of her wine glass, then shrugged as if dismissing me. “I don’t know… I’ve just… wandered. Found little streets I never would have noticed otherwise, climbed a few rooftops for the view, and taken pictures. Lots of pictures.”
I smiled, pretending casual interest, though I was fully captivated. “Pictures, huh? Are we talking tourists’ snapshots or something more… revealing?”
She patted her camera bag and her eyes lit up with a spark of excitement. Apparently, in Paris, she didn’t go anywhere without it. It was… endearing.
“Revealing,” she admitted. “Trying to catch the city in ways that make it feel… alive. Hidden corners. Shadows that tell a story. The light hitting a window just right. People unaware they’re being watched. Moments that vanish if you blink.”
I nodded slowly, letting the words sink in, letting her see I was listening. “Sounds like you’re learning more than any classroom could teach you. You’ve got an eye, Rachel. A rare one. What about you? Do you ever stop long enough to… dream? About Paris, about life, about… yourself?”
Her fingers paused on the glass, and I caught the tiniest flicker of vulnerability before she masked it with her usual shield. “Sometimes. I mean… I try to. I wander, I shoot, I think. I imagine what it would be like if I weren’t always racing, always learning. If I could just… live. I want to capture it all, you know? Every corner, every story. I want to know I saw it, really saw it. Not just through the lens.”
“Not just through the lens,” I echoed softly, savoring the way her words hung in the air. I leaned back, resting one elbow on the table, I didn’t want her to think I was judging. “I like that. That’s… honest. Brave, even.”
She looked at me then, and I caught that flicker of challenge again. “Brave? Is that what you think?”
I grinned, leaning forward slightly, eyes locked on hers. “I think you’re fascinating. I think you’re fearless in ways most people can’t even imagine. And yes… I think you’re brave enough to admit it. To admit who you are, even to yourself.”
Her lips parted slightly, caught between a laugh and a blush, and I knew I had her. Not fully—never fully—but enough. “You’re…” she started, shaking her head, words caught somewhere. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Exactly,” I said softly, letting my voice drop just a touch, letting her feel it. “Exactly what I want you to figure out. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll get to see the answer too.”
She laughed, small and sharp, trying to reclaim the edge. “You think this is all about you, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” I admitted with a sly smile. “Maybe a little. But mostly… it’s about you. Always about you.”
The waiter returned, quiet and efficient, offering the dessert menu with a practiced smile.
I caught the flicker of indecision in Rachel’s eyes as she glanced over the options, fighting to hold onto her composure.
“Actually,” I said smoothly, cutting in before she could voice any protests, “ask them to box it up. We’ll take it back to the hotel, Rachel.” I was going to say home, but I wouldn’t invite myself into her space.
Not yet.
Her brow lifted, a small, almost imperceptible pause, like she was weighing the audacity of my suggestion. “The hotel?” she asked, tone careful, amused, and skeptical all at once.
A good sign that she hadn’t just told me no.
“Yes,” I said, leaning just slightly across the table, voice low and playful, letting her feel the certainty in it. “You came to Paris to live… so let’s live.”
