They scattered immediately.
When we were done, he picked up both camera bags.
“Come.”
We stepped out into the morning.
Paris was hushed in that early-hour way—delivery trucks rumbling, birds tentative, the city stretching rather than waking. The rain had left everything slick and reflective, light caught in puddles like a thousand small mirrors.
We walked half a block before I realized where we were headed.
“René—”
“Food and coffee are good,” he said, as if this were a scientific fact. “Do not argue.”
I closed my mouth.
The café was nearly empty. We sat at a small table by the window. I didn’t remember ordering, but suddenly there was coffee in front of me and a plate of something warm and buttery and lifesaving.
I ate like a starving woman, my stomach registering thorough disapproval with my abuse through the night.
René watched me with something like approval.
“You did good,” he said, finally.
The words stunned me. It wasn’t him being all warm and fuzzy or even cutting. It sounded far more practical, as if he expected nothing less.
“Go home,” he continued. “Upload. Sleep. We review sheets this afternoon.”
I nodded.
“Do not look at them before then.”
I opened my mouth.
“Donot.”
I shut it again.
A car was waiting when we stepped back outside.
René opened the door for me. “This takes you home.”
“I can?—”
“You will not.” He met my eyes. “You have given me enough for one night.”
The driver waited patiently.
René hesitated, then added, quieter, “You see more when you are rested.”
I climbed in.
“Good night, Rachel.”
“Good night, René.”
As the car pulled away, I watched him recede through the rain-softened glass, already turning back toward the city.
