She sighs, defeated, and presses play on the next movie. “Ok, this one is more of them in a relationship instead of faking it. I wouldtell you to take lessons from Peter, but you’re already pretty good at being a boyfriend, and I don’t need moreperfection.”
I laugh. “That’s not a word.”
“I just made it one, now shh.”
I watch it attentively because I plan to be her real-life replica of all her favorite book guys.
Someone has to take that role, and I volunteer without any resistance, because if it means I get to keep Tilly forever, smiling and joking around, then I have absolutely no complaint.
Halfway through, she starts getting drowsy — her head resting on my shoulder, her fingers curled around a handful of popcorn she never ate.
I don’t dare move. The world outside could disappear, and I would never notice.
The movie plays on, the lamp hums quietly, and her breathing slows against me.
She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something about Peter Kavinsky that makes me bite back a laugh.
I brush a strand of hair from her face and whisper, “Sorry, Lara Jean. You’ve got nothing on my girl.”
Then I lean back, pulling the blanket higher over us, and watch the soft glow of Paris flicker through the window.
I have never felt more at peace in my life.
***
I wake up to the faintest sound of the city buzzing below us.
And right next to me lies Tilly.
Her head is resting against my arm, her hair a mess of golden tangles spilling across the blanket.
Her face is turned toward me, lips parted slightly, still asleep.
I don’t move. Not once.
She’s curled up in the middle of the mattress fort as she belongs there.
I shifted slightly, my arm completely numb under her weight, but even that doesn’t make me want to move her.
I just watched.
She looks peaceful in a way I rarely see.
It’s just her in the simplest way possible, and I decide right here and now that this is my favorite version of Tilly.
Not that I don’t love every single version, this one is just so rare to see, and I will never take this view for granted.
The sunlight has started slipping through the half-drawn curtains, painting her cheek gold. It makes her look unreal.
I reached out and brushed a bit of popcorn from her hair.
There is so much popcorn in her hair.
How does she even manage that?
“Morning, baby,” I whisper, even though I know she’s barely awake.
She stirs a little, scrunching her nose. “Mm… what time is it?” Her voice is raspy and sleepy, and I swear I fall for her again right there.
