POV Leo
Paris hit differently. The moment we stepped off the jet, the air wrapped around us with a crisp chill, laced with the scent of baking bread from somewhere unseen — the kind of smell that made people think Paris was a living postcard. Mira tried to act unimpressed, her chin up, stride casual, but I caught the way her eyes darted from the buildings to the cobblestones, drinking in every detail like she didn’t want to miss a single thing.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been here,” I said as we walked toward the waiting car.
“I’ve been here,” she said, tugging her coat tighter. “Just… not like this.”
“Like this?”
She glanced at me, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “With a guy who rents jets and looks at people like he’s deciding whether to buy the whole city.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Paris is already mine. I’m just giving you the tour.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the smile she tried to hide. That was the thing about Mira — every time she thought she’d hidden something, it made me want to look closer.
The driver took us straight to Rue Cler, stopping at a café with three wobbly tables out front and a waitress who looked like she’d kick you out for asking for almond milk. Mira insisted on ordering in French, which was adorable, if a little painful to watch. She leaned over the menu, brow furrowed in concentration, then asked for “un café très grande” like she was at Starbucks.
The waitress blinked, glanced at me with an expression that said control your American, and scribbled it down.
“You just asked for a very big coffee,” I told her once the waitress left.
“That’s what I wanted,” she said, lifting her chin in mock defiance.
“They don’t do big coffee here. You’re about to get an espresso shot in a doll-sized cup.”
Her brows knitted together. “Then I’ll drink ten of them.”
When it came, she took one sip and winced. “Okay… that’s bitter.”
I laughed, leaning back. “Hopeless.”
“You could’ve warned me!” she protested, but there was a smile breaking through, her guard slipping in the way I’d been wanting to see for weeks.
We wandered after that, no destination in mind, just letting the streets pull us along. Mira stopped at every florist stand we passed, fingertips brushing over petals like she wanted to memorize their softness. I bought her a bunch of pale pink peonies from an old man whose hands shook when he wrapped them in paper.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but she held them like they were something precious.
Eventually we ended up leaning on the railing by the Seine, watching the boats drift past in slow procession. The sky was low and gray, but the light hit the water in a way that made it shimmer. Mira rested her chin on her hands, her hair falling forward, catching bits of wind.
“You know,” she said softly, “if I were here alone, I’d be taking selfies right now.”
“You can still take selfies.”
“With you in them?”
“Obviously,” I said. “Otherwise they’re not worth posting.”
She laughed, and I pulled her into a photo before she could object. She studied it afterward, shaking her head. “You don’t even try, and you still look like that. It’s irritating.”
“Genetics,” I said simply. “And practice.”
By late afternoon, I’d taken her to the rooftop at Galeries Lafayette. From there, the Eiffel Tower rose in the distance, a steel silhouette against the pale sky. Mira walked straight to the edge, her gaze fixed on it.
“Cliché,” I teased.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
The wind caught her hair, and for a moment I forgot the skyline entirely. All I could focus on was her profile, the softness in her eyes, the way the fading light turned her skin into something almost luminous.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It is.”
She didn’t turn around, but the small curve at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
Dinner was in Le Marais — candlelight, warm bread, red wine that lingered on the tongue. She stole half my dessert without asking, then decided hers was better and made me trade back. We argued about it until she was laughing so hard that the couple at the next table shot us a glare that only made her laugh harder.
It was late when we started back toward the car, both of us a little flushed from the wine. The streets were glowing with lamplight, slick from a drizzle that had started and stopped without warning. I remember thinking I could live in this moment forever — her beside me, Paris unfolding around us like a secret.
Then her phone buzzed.
Mira glanced at the screen, and the smile she’d been wearing all night fell away like it had never been there. She slowed to a stop, lifting the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” Her voice was already tight. “Wait—what? When? No, I… I’ll come now. I’ll figure it out.”
I stopped walking, turning toward her. “What happened?”
She lowered the phone slowly, like it had turned to lead in her hand. Her knuckles were pale around it, her eyes wide but unfocused.
“It’s my dad,” she said quietly. “He’s in the hospital.”