Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 39

Skylane

I woke to the kind of quiet that feels earned. Paris had its own brand of hush in the mornings—soft, pale, rinsed with milk light. A scooter coughed on the boulevard below, a dog barked once, and in the kitchen someone... existed.

I slid out of bed and padded down the hall, tugging on one of the oversized sweaters Kingsley had insisted I keep ("Paris apartments have secret drafts," he'd said solemnly, like a myth). The second bedroom's door stood open now. Blaise's duffel sat under the desk, his hoodie thrown across the back of the chair, his laptop glowing with a paused video of a basketball game. Homey, ridiculous, vulnerable.

He was at my stove wearing an apron he absolutely did not deserve to look good in, one hip leaned against the counter, whisk in hand. A bowl of batter rested in a nest of tea towels. He glanced up when I stepped in, and the smile that crossed his face had a softness I hadn't seen in too long.

"Bonjour, missy," he said, the accent atrocious and perfect. "Crêpes or pancakes?"

"You're asking me to choose between children," I said, but I couldn't help the grin. "Crêpes. We're in France."

"Correct answer." He tipped the batter into the pan, wrist loose, confident. The kitchen filled with the warm smell of butter. "Coffee?"

"Please." I slid onto a stool and folded my arms across the counter, chin in my palms. Watching him felt like borrowing a future. He poured coffee the way he did everything—with an attention that made simple things feel important. He set a mug in front of me and bent to kiss my forehead, easy now, unafraid, as if we were both relearning how to be gentle.

"You keep doing that and I'm going to start expecting it," I muttered, cheeks warming.

"Good," he said, flipping the crêpe with an infuriating flick. "Expect everything."

We ate at the tiny table by the window, knees bumping, syrup sticky on our fingers, powdered sugar clinging to my lip until he wiped it away with his thumb and looked like he wanted to say something he wasn't sure I could hold yet. We didn't talk about heavy things. Not this morning. We talked about nothing important on purpose.

"Plan?" he asked, rinsing plates. "We do the cliché?"

"Which cliché?"

He turned, drying his hands. "Disneyland."

I laughed. "You're serious."

"Very." He tugged at my sweater sleeve. "Let me do a week of normal with you."

Normal. A word that used to feel like a joke when we were bleeding and pretending everything was fine. Here, it just felt... possible.

"Okay," I said. "Let's go be normal."

...

It turns out Blaise was built to win at theme parks.

He moved through crowds like he was running a fast break—eyes tracking exits, scanning threats, ushering me through bottlenecks with an arm at my back that never felt like a cage. He bought us matching ears at the first booth we passed. Minnie for me, Mickey for him. The vendor slipped the headband onto my hair with the reverence of a coronation; Blaise adjusted it like the world might end if the bow was crooked.

"You're adorable," he declared, stepping back to assess.

"And you're a menace," I said, but I didn't take it off.

We rode Big Thunder Mountain first, because he said he wanted to "get the yelling out of my system"—and then yelled louder than anyone on the train. I laughed until my ribs hurt, and when the cart screeched to a halt he slumped dramatically against me, hand to his heart.