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Marc was laughing, a loud, expansive sound that took up all the oxygen in the small kitchen, while Sylvie’s hand stayed exactly where I’d left it.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for fact-checking a deputy mayor’s expense report.
I wanted to take that look of hers and press it between the pages of a heavy book until it turned into a stain.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes the glass, turning the Tuileries into a blurred green smear that looks like a bad recon photo.