élan

retrouvailles

retrouvailles is an untranslatable French word that describes the feeling of re-meeting someone, the joy of seeing someone you missed even if you didn't know you missed them before

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"Y'think I did alright?"

(Y/N) swore her cheeks were going to ache for the rest of the day with the way her wide smile stretched over her lips.

"I think you did really well," she told him, her voice laced with warm amusement though she was far from teasing.

She was being honest, really. Hearing Harry speak in the small amount of conversational French he knew to her new nail tech as well as the receptionist of the salon she'd found today, was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. While his accent was improving, she cherished the flourish he still gave to his e's and the care he gave to his consonants.

"'M getting better, huh," he pressed, sounding a little too proud.

"Your accent definitely is," she mused, spotting the entrance to their building not too far ahead from where they were strolling down the pedestrian walk.

"Good," Harry responded simply, the edge of a dimple pressed into his cheek, "I've been practicing."

Somehow it was possible, but (Y/N)'s smile widened. "I've heard."

He wasn't exactly the most quiet as he recited simple words she'd taught to him after he thought she fell asleep. He preferred to sneak out onto the balcony, and practice with the light of the Tower shimmering in the distance. She liked hearing his voice like that, just a hair muffled through the door and his improper French.

It didn't take long before Harry was holding open the door for her to head inside their apartment building. No one other than the doorman was occupying the small space. (Y/N) offered a fleeting smile in his direction, her attention captured by the grandiose display on the desk counter.

In a crystalline vase, cut expertly to allow waves of rainbow light to glimmer over the warm eggshell walls, was an oversized bouquet of roses. The petals were deep spirals of velveteen red, deep dark in the center before going crimson on the edges. They had unfurled perfectly, not a single speck of discoloration or wilting. The stems were a healthy forest green, strong with clipped thorns as they held the large blooms in place. Interspersed between the roses were glossy leaves of emerald greenery and stark white puffs of baby's breath. It was full and large, stuffed and heavy with more immaculate roses than (Y/N) thought could exist in the world. How the vase wasn't toppling over from the sheer size, she wasn't sure.

They were gorgeous—pristine. (Y/N) even slowed her steps some to caress her eyes over the blooms for a moment longer.

Nonetheless, their synced steps eventually landed her at the doors of the lift. Harry, at her side with his own attention pressing forward, entered the code for the lift to take them upwards.

Just as she took her eyes away from the bouquet, the doorman suddenly shouted through the lobby in accented English, "Wait!"

(Y/N)'s steps faltered, the elevator doors having parted open. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling his shout being directed to her though she couldn't imagine why.

The doorman looked at her with wide eyes, his brows raised. "Mademoiselle?"

"Oui? Comment puis-je t'aider?" she trilled, watching as he stepped closer with her to catch up.

From the corner of her eye, Harry's security instincts kicked in, stepping closer to her as a form of barricade.

Eyeing Harry, the doorman slowed feet away, keeping that space between as (Y/N) peered around the broad of Harry's shoulder.