Eight weeks later.
Eight weeks in, and I’m still not used to waking up next to her without reaching out to make sure she is real. She’s tangled in my sheets, stealing all the pillows, skin sun-tanned and soft from that weekend we’d spent with Rose and her new man in Montauk.
She’d fallen asleep last night talking about ideas for the next international campaign Hayes could run, her head on my chest and her fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles over my ribs. I’d never known peace could come like this, quiet and golden and entirely her.
In eight weeks, she has met my mom and stepdad and re-bonded with Elena as if they were long-lost sisters. We’ve spent a couple of weekends at theirhouse, and by now it feels like she’s been visiting them for years.
She knew Nico too well for my own good now. He called her "trouble,” and I don’t even argue. They are now practically best friends. Which I appreciate.
We'd had dinner at the Hayes compound twice. I sat across from Max and watched him watch me with his youngest daughter, my girlfriend. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. But it wasn’t war, either. And in this family? That counted for something.
Sam had changed everything. I barely noticed the shift until I was fully in it. Which is why I booked two first-class tickets to Paris, 1A and 1B. A nod to where it started. A reminder that some stories like ours can happen anywhere. Tonight, I’ll surprise her.
But for now, she was sleeping. And I was in love with her, with us, with this version of my life that finally felt like it had room for more than work, legacy, and expectation.
It felt like it needed to haveher.
“No one needs six pairs of heels for a weekend in Paris,” I told her. “Bold of you to assume that Mr. Jones,” she shot back, tossing one more silky dress into her bag. She looked so damn happy. Glowing, really. And I could tell between her excitement and the way her fingers lingered on her passport cover, that she had missed this.
The airport was buzzing in that way Sam always loved.
She moved through it with ease, like the floorbelonged to her, like she could still slip into that part of herself when she wanted to. I trailed just behind her with our carry-ons, watching every flicker of joy in her eyes. It made my chest feel too tight— in the best way.
First class felt different this time.
We drank champagne before takeoff, “The whole cart, please,” Sam joked, clicking her glass to mine. We watched a ridiculous action movie, half-cuddled under the plush blanket. She kept stealing bites of my dessert even though she had her own. I didn’t stop her. I wouldn’t dare.
When the cabin lights dimmed, and the hum of the plane settled into a lull, she rested her head on my shoulder and whispered, “You planned this whole thing just to see me in a trench coat, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. Only if you are not wearing anything under it.” She giggled, her hand sliding into mine. I kissed her knuckles one by one, and for a while, we just sat there, flying thirty thousand feet above reality, in our own little bubble.
By the time the plane started its descent, I couldn’t tell what felt more surreal, Paris or her.
The car ride from the airport was quiet, Paris blurring past the window, her hand still tucked in mine. Samdidn’t talk much, but she kept glancing over at me with that half-smile she gave when she didn’t want to admit she was very happy about something.
I’d booked a suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the Eiffel Tower that looked like a dream. The moment she walked in, she dropped her bag and just stared. “Oh, come on,” she breathed. “You’re trying to ruin every hotel for me.”
I stepped behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and whispered, “Wait until you see the room service menu.”
She turned in my arms, already smiling. “You’re such a show-off.”
“Nah,” I said, brushing my lips to hers. “I’m just in love.” That shut her up in the best way. We spent the afternoon wandering the Musée d’Orsay. Sam lingered longest in front of the Impressionists, eyes tracing the light, the brushwork, the emotion. I watched her more than I watched the art. There was something about seeing her here, surrounded by the world she loved, that made everything feel even more real.
After, we stopped for macarons and champagne. She made me rank the flavors, even though she already knew pistachio would win. She kissed me in a side street just because the cobblestones were cute. We held hands without thinking about it.
That night, I surprised her with a late-night Eiffel Tower tour. Just us, the twinkling lights, and a few tourists too in awe to care about anyone else. Samlooked up and whispered, “It’s stupid how magical this place still is.”
I kissed her shoulder. “There’s nothing stupid about magic.”
She didn’t say anything, just leaned her head on my chest and let out the softest sigh. Like she finally let herself believe that all of this, me, Paris, us, might actually be safe to want. She leaned on the railing of the observation area, hair dancing in the breeze, cheeks flushed from champagne and laughter.
“You know,” she said, glancing back at me, “this is almost too perfect. Suspiciously so.”
I stepped beside her, heart pounding like I hadn’t felt in years. “Suspicious, huh?” I echoed. She laughed. “Like, what’s next? Fireworks? A flash mob? A hidden violinist?”
“No,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket, fingers brushing velvet. “Just this.”
She turned fully toward me, teasing, smiling, fading, eyes searching mine as I dropped to one knee.
