His bicep is solid. Warm.
“Sorry about that. I'm a big guy.” He winces.
“Um, yeah. I’ve noticed. Why did you think I was hesitant to come up here with you?”
“Ouch,” he says, his hand splaying dramatically over his chest. “So, that show of reluctance was all because of me.”
My body relaxes as a smile escapes me. “Nailed it.”
The gondola rises higher, and the breeze picks up, lifting a few strands of my hair. The city lights blur as we sway, and I realize I’m still holding onto him. I loosen my grip, but I don’t let go.
He shakes his head dramatically. “And here I thought you were finally starting to like me.”
Unrestrained laughter bursts out of my chest, the sound surprising even me. It feels easy. Too easy. “Nope,” I tease.
He chuckles, but there’s something softer in his eyes now. “I’ve really got to up my game.”
I nod, still chuckling. “You do.”
We finally reach the top, and the gondola pauses for a breathless second. From up here, the firework stands look like matchboxes, the people like moving dots of color. It’s beautiful.
And despite myself—despite the dizzying height, the creaking metal, the fact that I don’t trust anything that depends on bolts and gravity—I can’t hold back my smile.
The gondola begins its descent, and we bask in the silence, watching the sights. It dips slightly as we pass the lowest point before starting the slow climb again. The rhythm becomes almost soothing—rise, pause, sway. The breeze is cooler now, brushing against my bare arms and carrying the faint traces of grilled food and sugar from the stalls below.
“So,” Baptiste says casually, leaning back. “On a scale of one to ten, how likely are we to ‘fall to our deaths’?”
“A solid eight,” I shoot back immediately.
“Eight?” He presses a hand to his chest again. “Have a little faith in our institutions. This is government-grade engineering we’re talking about.”
“That makes it even worse.”
He laughs, and this time, I don’t brace for the tilt. I’m starting to get used to the sway. Or maybe I’m just getting used to him.
“You’re not afraid of anything else, are you?” he asks after a beat. “Just heights and hockey players?”
“I’mnotafraid of hockey players,” I retort. “Just overinflated egos.”
“Ah. So, I’m safe then.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Debatable.”
He grins, wide and unapologetic, and I hate how good it looks on him, his outline traced against the soft glow of the city lights. For a second, he looks less like Mr. Celebrity and more like… just a guy. A very massive, very attractive, slightly annoying guy.
The gondola sways again, more gently this time, and my knee bumps into his. Neither of us moves away.
“Admit it,” he says quietly. “You’re having a good time.”
“I’m tolerating it,” I correct with a faint grin.
He studies me, like he doesn’t believe that for a second. And maybe he shouldn’t.
Our gondola swings at the top again.
For the first time, I’m not tempted to make a dramatic comment about death. I just gaze through the glass, enjoying the view.
And maybe Baptiste notices, because he doesn’t say anything either.
