Chapter 29
Luca
The airport is chaotic.
Rolling suitcases rattling, announcements echoing, travelers yelling over each other.
I look over at Tilly and smile.
She looks beautiful in her way too big hoodie that I bought last year, hair messy, and the bag she sneakily picked up and thinks I have no idea about it.
I nudge her slightly and put my hand out.
“You good?” she asks, confusion marking her face.
I love how she looks without makeup. She looks beautiful when she’s natural, and I know it’s natural because no one wakes up with a full face.
And Tilly in the morning is just as stunning as the evening.
Every morning, I fall slightly lower for her.
Every night, I realize slightly more why I love her.
“The bag T.”
She glares at me. “You are already carrying so much. I want to carry this. I look like a stuck-up brat when you’re walking around with all the baggage, and all I’m carrying is my phone.”
I try to hide my smile because she hates it when I find her amusing, which is all the time.
“I don’t care what other people think, Tilly, and I won't let you carry that bag.”
“You care about what I think, and I think you should let me carry this one thing.”
“Nice try, but no.”
She rolls her eyes and starts taking the bag off her shoulders. “Fine, here you–” she tries to run away, but I grab her waist before she can take a step.
She lets out a tiny scream and starts laughing. “Come on, please?” She gives me my least favorite look, but I don’t relent.
“Your puppy eyes don’t work when it’s about your discomfort.” I take the bag off her shoulder and put it on mine.
Then, I pull her into a hug, and she giggles.
We find a bench near our gate, the world rushing past us, people talking on phones, the faint smell of overpriced coffee, the metallic tang of luggage wheels.
Tilly flops down and puts her legs on mine when I sit down.
“You’re way too calm,” I say, pretending to scold her. “We’re flying to Paris in three hours, and you’re sitting here like we’re going to the grocery store.”
“I’m not calm,” she protests, hiding her hands in the sleeves of her hoodie. “I’m trying not to freak out in public and make it awkward for the people around us.”
I smirk. “Oh, come on, live a little. If anyone looks at you weirdly, tell them you’re going to Paris. They’ll understand. If not, you have me.”
She hits my arm, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you, you mean.”
Her eyes widen, and I laugh at her reaction. “Stop. You’re not allowed to talk like that.”
“I’m allowed to tell my girlfriend I love her because I know she loves it and it makes her heart melt.”
“Talking in third person is such an ick,” she tells me, and I laugh.
“She thinks it’s weird to talk in third person, but–” she shuts me up with a kiss, and I smile into her lips.
“Ok, ok, I’ll stop.”
“That’s what I thought,” she pulls away and gives me an amused look.
She looks so happy, and it’s my life goal to make sure that’s how she looks until we are gray and old.
The flight board buzzes overhead, reminding us that Paris is waiting.
I grab her hand, twisting it lightly in mine. “You excited?”
She squeezes back, looking sideways at me with that small, nervous smile I know too well. “Terrified. But also happy. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Terrified is good,” I say, grinning. “Means you care. Also means I get to tease you the entire flight, which is my favorite thing ever.”
“I’m going to scream if you do,” she mutters.
We walk toward the gate together, weaving through the crowd.
I notice the way her hoodie bunches at the sleeves, the soft scuff of her sneakers against the polished floor, the tiny shake in her step when she sees how many people are waiting. I reach out, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Relax, T, I promise we’ll be fine.”
One of the bonuses of knowing everything about Tilly is that I can read her like an open book.
Tilly’s actions speak more easily to me than English ever could.
Once we’re on the plane, she practically claims the window seat, and I couldn't care less, because she was getting it anyway.
I entwine our fingers together, and she rests her head on my shoulder.
The engines roar to life, and I watch her press her forehead to the glass, eyes wide, hair falling into her face.
The plane lifts, and she looks thrilled.
I am convinced her favorite part of the flight is the beginning, when the plane speeds down the line, and the landing, when you feel all your insides go up.
I hate those moments, but it makes it way more berable whena certain blond is practically jumping with joy beside me.
I watch her as her eyes follow the city lights shrinking below us. Her hand is still in mine, her thumb tracing tiny circles over my knuckles.
***
The plane finally touches down with a gentle bump, the landing smooth enough to make my stomach flip once and then settle.
Tilly looks at Paris with tired eyes, but I can see the spark in them.
I reach over, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she smiles at me.
“Welcome to Paris,” I whisper, nudging her shoulder. She lets out a small, sleepy laugh.
“Feels unreal,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against the cool window for a moment longer.
The airport is a blur of lights, rolling suitcases, and people talking in languages I don’t understand.
I guide her through the crowd, holding her hand a little tighter than necessary. She stumbles once, and I catch her under the arm, murmuring a teasing, “Careful, my beautiful traveler.”
By the time we have our luggage and find the taxi line, our shoulders are brushing, and every small movement feels charged.
Like someone is wrapping us with electric wires, but instead of it being painful, I want the electricity to shock me over and over again.
I sling her backpack over my shoulder, giving her a gentle nudge forward. “You go ahead and nap.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “Jet lag is real, Luca.”
“Then sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re at the hotel,” I grin.
She leans against me, letting out a contented sigh, and I realize I don’t mind being squished in a taxi with her at all.
The ride through Paris is like watching a dream move slowly beneath our wheels.
Streetlights flicker across the car, reflections glinting in puddles from the night before.
The buildings look impossibly old, impossibly beautiful, and I keep sneaking glances at Tilly.
Even tired, she’s perfect to me.
“Hey,” I bump her gently with my shoulder. “You awake?”
Her eyes flutter open, still groggy, a small smile forming. “Yeah, barely. It’s all really pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you,”
She leans her head against my shoulder, and I make sure to breathe in a way that won’t be uncomfortable for her.
By the time we arrive at the hotel, I carry T up to our apartment bridal style while she’s still half asleep.
“Your kingdom awaits,” I gesture to the lobby, which smells faintly of flowers and fresh linen.
The room is beautiful, and the view from our window is even more stunning.
We have the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, and I know she will scream with joy tomorrow, when the jet lag dissolves.
“Finally, sleep.”
“Sleep. Or snacks,” I counter, tossing her my backpack. She catches it lazily, yawning.
I flop onto the other bed, letting out a tired groan. “We did it.”
“Yes, we did,” she agrees.
I smile at her, heart full, and reach over to squeeze her hand.