35. Chapter 35
thirty-five
T he light was soft and silvery, filtering through the curtains like a gentle nudge rather than a full wake-up call. Monroe stirred slowly, the warmth of Chloé’s body behind her a quiet reminder of the night before, their legs still tangled, and the air smelled faintly of sleep, skin, and sex.
She felt lips brush the top of her shoulder.
“You’re awake,” Chloé murmured.
“Barely,” Monroe replied, her voice husky with sleep.
There was a pause, like Chloé was deciding how much to say.
“I want to show you the city,” she said eventually.
“The places that feel like mine. The market where I buy cheese I don’t need.
The park that’s too small to be impressive but perfect on quiet days.
A gallery that’s almost always empty. It’s not a tour, I just want you to see what my life looks like. ”
Monroe turned in her arms, blinking sleep from her eyes. “You want me to know you.”
Chloé’s smile was soft. “Yes.”
Monroe stretched, wincing slightly at the ache in her thighs. “Then I’ll need coffee. And maybe a croissant. Or four.”
“Done,” Chloé said. “You shower; I'll take you to my favourite patisserie.”
Monroe watched her slip out of bed and pad barefoot and naked across the wooden floor, her hair messy, her movements unselfconscious. It struck her then—not just the comfort, but the ease—the absence of performance.
Maybe it wasn’t about deciding anything yet. Maybe it was just about letting the days unfold.
Dressed and ready to wander the town she’d only recently explored as a tourist, Monroe felt giddy, like a teenager who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.
She wanted to touch, to kiss, and clearly, Chloé felt the same way.
Every brush of their arms, every glance that lingered a little too long, buzzed with restrained affection.
It wasn’t just the anticipation of the day ahead, it was being in this place, with her , that made it feel new all over again.
Chloé grabbed her keys from the bowl by the door, then turned back with a smirk and gave Monroe’s backside a playful smack as she stepped past. Monroe yelped, laughing, eyes narrowing in mock offence.
“Rude,” she said, grinning.
“Encouragement,” Chloé replied, holding the door open with an exaggerated bow. “Now go, before I drag you back upstairs and ruin all our plans.”
Monroe stepped out, heart light, the morning air crisp against her cheeks. “Promises, promises.”
Chloé locked the door behind them and slipped her hand into Monroe’s as they headed to the car. The click of their boots on the gravel, the casual intimacy of their touch—it all felt effortless, like something that had always been waiting for them.
The scent hit Monroe the moment they opened the door of the patisserie.
A mix of butter, sugar, and warm dough made her stomach growl audibly.
The patisserie was small, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, with delicate gold lettering on the window and a bell that chimed softly as they entered.
Inside, the counters gleamed with rows of pastries too beautiful to eat: glossy fruit tarts, flaky croissants, delicate mille-feuille. A barista behind the counter greeted Chloé by name, smiled curiously, and raised an eyebrow at Monroe.
“I told you I come here too often,” Chloé whispered as they approached the glass case. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I think it’s charming,” Monroe replied. “Also, I’m absolutely getting two of everything.”
“Do it. The pistachio pain Suisse is so good.” She leant in, brushing Monroe’s arm with hers, her voice low. “And you’ll need the sugar after last night.”
Monroe shot her a look. “Keep talking like that and we’ll need enough sugar for tomorrow too.”
They placed their order—coffees, croissants, a little box of extra pastries for later—and found a small table by the window. Outside, the street was slowly waking up, people passing with shopping bags and dogs on leads; the kind of Saturday morning rhythm that felt easy and unhurried.
Chloé tore off a piece of her croissant and handed it to Monroe. “This is the best part of my week. Coffee. Pastry. And now…” she gestured between them, “you.”
Monroe chewed slowly, letting the buttery flakes melt on her tongue. “You’re cute when you’re sweet.”
“I’m always sweet.”
“You’re occasionally sweet. But always cute.”
Their laughter mingled, quiet and content, as they sipped their coffees and watched the city move around them.
They wandered a few streets over, the air still cool but rain holding off.
Chloé led the way, their hands brushing now and again until Monroe finally just took hers.
She didn’t care who saw—not in England, not here.
But there was something about this morning, about Chloé, that made the touch feel new, charged, like something real was beginning.
They turned a corner and stopped outside a narrow storefront painted a deep plum. The sign above read Les Mots Pour Elles in delicate cursive. Monroe felt her brows lift. “A women’s bookstore?”
Chloé nodded, already pulling the door open. “My favourite place in the city. It’s small, but the owner curates everything herself—mostly women authors, feminist works, queer voices. I practically lived in here when I first moved back from Paris.”
Monroe stepped inside, immediately enveloped by the scent of old pages, coffee, and a hint of something flowery. Wooden shelves lined the walls, packed tightly with books in both French and English. There was a quiet reverence to the place, like a sanctuary.
A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled warmly. “ Bonjour , Chloé.”
“ Bonjour , Martine. Je te présente, Monroe.”
Martine nodded at Monroe with a knowing glance. “Welcome. You have good taste.”
Chloé winked and led Monroe deeper into the shop, between the stacks. “I used to hide back here,” she said, gesturing towards a reading nook by the window, “pretending to be reading, when really, I was just escaping the world.”
Monroe ran her fingers over the spines of the books, pausing at one with a worn cover, Monique Wittig: Les Guérillères.
“This place feels…” She hesitated, trying to find the word.
“Safe,” Chloé offered. “That’s how I think of it. Like a space where nothing has to be explained.”
Monroe nodded. “I like it.”
“You can pick anything you want,” Chloé said, stepping closer. “Souvenir of the weekend.”
Monroe looked up at her, a slow smile forming. “Then you better help me choose.”
They spent the next twenty minutes flipping through pages, making quiet jokes, leaning in too close and not pulling back. And for Monroe, the bookstore wasn’t just Chloé’s; it became a tiny piece of her own story too.