There is a particular kind of freedom that only exists when you are climbing out of a bathroom window while two investigators show your photograph to strangers.
Estienne laces his fingers together, creating a step for my foot. I place my heel in his palms, and he lifts me toward the narrow frame with surprising strength.
My hips scrape against the sill as I wriggle through, and his hands find my waist from behind, steadying me as I tumble gracelessly into the alley on the other side.
He lands beside me seconds later, already reaching to help me stand. Rain pelts our faces, warm and insistent, soaking through our clothes within seconds.
"I have questions," he says, water streaming down his jaw, his pale eyes bright with an energy I cannot quite name. "So many questions."
"Questions later." I grab his hand and pull him toward the mouth of the alley. "Walking casually now."
We emerge onto the main street like we belong there, two people caught in a summer storm, nothing remarkable, nothing worth remembering.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force my stride to remain unhurried, my expression to stay neutral.
The rain provides excellent cover. People duck into doorways and under awnings, too focused on staying dry to study passing faces.
"Are you going to tell me why we just committed dine-and-dash?" Estienne asks, matching my pace with an ease that suggests fleeing diners is not entirely new territory for him.
"I told you we were playing by my rules."
"Your rules seem to involve a lot of running and very little explanation."
A tourist shop materializes on our left, its entrance cluttered with racks of cheap souvenirs and spinning displays of postcards.
My eyes catch on a stand of sunglasses near the door, gaudy frames in every color, the kind that cost three euros and fall apart within a week.
I do not slow down. My hand reaches out as we pass, plucking two pairs from the rack with a smoothness that surprises even me.
I slide one onto my own face and press the other into Estienne's chest.
He stops walking.
"Did you just steal these?" His voice carries equal parts shock and delight, like a child discovering that Christmas came early.
"Consider it urban camouflage." I adjust my frames, purple plastic that clashes spectacularly with my rain-darkened hair. "Put them on."
He stares at the sunglasses in his hand, then back at my face, his expression cycling through emotions too quickly for me to track.
The rain continues falling around us, running in rivulets down his cheekbones, collecting in the hollow of his throat.
"Who are you?" he asks, and the question carries a weight that makes my breath catch.
I do not have an answer.
The woman standing here in stolen sunglasses, heart racing with something that feels dangerously close to joy—she is a stranger to me.
"Someone who wants to see if you are as brave as you pretend to be," I say instead of answering honestly.
"I am extremely brave." Estienne slides the sunglasses onto his face—bright orange, hideous, perfect. "Possibly the bravest person you have ever met."
"Prove it." I point across the street to a supermarket, its neon sign flickering through the downpour. "You take that one. I will take the electronics store on the corner. Whoever steals the most impressive thing wins."
His laugh is sudden and delighted, cutting through the rain like sunlight through clouds. "You want me to shoplift. On our first date."
"I want to see what you are made of, Estienne Côté." I lean closer, close enough to see the drops of water clinging to his lashes. "Unless you would rather go home and explain to Henri why we are soaking wet and missing lunch."
"And if I get caught?"
"Then I suppose I will have to rescue you." I step back, already moving toward the electronics store. "Five minutes. Meet me at the fountain in the square."
He jogs toward the supermarket without looking back, and something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest as I watch him disappear through the automatic doors.
The electronics store is small and cluttered, staffed by a bored teenager scrolling through her phone behind the counter.
I abandon the theft pretense the moment I step inside. I need this phone too badly to risk getting caught.
"I am a tourist," I tell the clerk in my most helpless voice, approaching the counter. "I lost my phone this morning, and I need something temporary until I can file an insurance claim."
She barely glances up from her screen. "Smartphones are on the back wall. Prepaid SIMs are by the register."
I select the cheapest model available, a clunky thing that probably cannot run more than three applications simultaneously. I add a prepaid SIM card that requires no identification, a charger, and enough data to last a week.
My passport sits in my bag—I could not bring myself to leave it in a house full of strangers, no matter how kind they seemed—but I know nobody will ask a tourist for documentation.
The clerk processes the transaction without interest, and I pay in cash, leaving no trail for Frank's investigators to follow.
When I step outside, the rain has intensified from downpour to deluge.
Water sheets across the pavement, pooling in gutters, transforming the street into a river of reflected lights.
I tuck the phone into my waistband and hurry toward the supermarket, squinting through the curtain of rain.
Then I see him.
Estienne bursts through the supermarket doors at full speed, something clutched against his chest, two security guards in furious pursuit behind him.
I run.
My feet pound against the wet pavement, splashing through puddles I do not bother to avoid.
He catches up to me within seconds, his longer stride eating the distance between us, and together we race through side streets and narrow alleys, lungs burning, rain streaming into our eyes.
The shouts fade behind us. The security guards give up the chase—probably deciding we are not worth the pneumonia.
We collapse against a wall in a quiet alley, gasping and soaked to the bone.
"What did you steal?" I manage between ragged breaths.
He holds up his prize: a single, slightly bruised mango.
"You got chased by security guards for a mango?"
"An extremely impressive mango." He grins, water dripping from his hair, his sunglasses askew on his face. "The most impressive one they had."
The laugh that escapes me is unfamiliar—bright and genuine and completely uncontrolled. It bends me double, makes my ribs ache, steals what little breath I have left.
When I straighten, he is looking at me with rain streaming down his face, his eyes soft with an emotion that instantly terrifies me.
Then he kisses me.
His mouth is warm against mine, tasting of rain and recklessness, and this time I do not pull away. I press into him, my fingers gripping his wet shirt, kissing him back with an intensity that surprises us both.
His hands frame my face, gentle despite the desperation in his lips.
The wall is hard against my spine, the rain is cold against my skin, and none of it matters because he is here, solid and real and wanting me.
When we finally break apart, his eyes drift to something over my shoulder.
I turn.
A small hotel sign flickers through the rain, its neon letters casting pink light across the wet cobblestones.
We look at each other, both of us breathing hard, both of us soaked through, both of us knowing exactly what that sign means.
Neither of us is going home today.
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