Chapter 12 Avery
Chapter twelve
Avery
Istand in Charles de Gaulle Airport arrivals with my heart pounding and my palms sweating like a teenager waiting for prom. I've checked my phone six times in the last ten minutes, obsessively tracking Dylan's flight.
The arrivals board shows it landed twelve minutes ago, which means he's probably through customs by now, collecting his bag, and probably minutes away from walking through those doors.
I smooth down my dress for the hundredth time. The soft blue sundress I bought yesterday suddenly feels too much, too obvious. Watching families reunite around me, and couples embrace, and businessmen stride past with rolling luggage, I realize something that makes me smile.
Being happy alone is powerful. But choosing to share that happiness with someone who deserves it? That's even better.
The doors slide open, releasing another wave of travelers. An older couple shuffles through, then a woman with three children, then a man in a business suit talking loudly on his phone. I crane my neck, searching.
Then I see him.
Dylan walks through the arrivals gate looking tall and beautiful in dark jeans and a Henley, his hair slightly messy from the flight.
His eyes scan the crowd systematically, and I watch the exact moment they land on me.
The way his face transforms—relief and joy and something deeper that makes my chest constrict.
He starts moving faster, pushing through the crowd with single-minded determination. My breath catches. After a week apart, after days of texts and photos but no voice calls because we both needed the distance, seeing him in person feels like remembering how to breathe properly.
Then he's there, dropping his bag and pulling me into his arms, and I wrap myself around him like I'm coming home. He smells like airplanes and coffee and something that's just Dylan, and I bury my face in his neck and hold on tight.
"Hi," I breathe against his skin.
"Hi yourself," Dylan murmurs, pulling back just enough to cup my face and kiss me properly.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, Dylan rests his forehead against mine. His hands still frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "I missed you so much," he says, voice rough.
"I missed you too," I whisper.
He pulls back to look at me properly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
I smile, feeling tears prick my eyes. "Yeah. I found myself. And now I'm ready to find us."
Dylan kisses me again, softer this time, and when he pulls back, he's smiling that devastating smile that made me want him from day one. "Then let's find us in Paris. I can't think of a better place."
The next morning starts with coffee at my café.
We take the metro from Dylan's hotel—a beautiful boutique place near the Louvre that makes my little room in the Marais look like a closet—and emerge in my neighborhood just as the city is waking up.
The bakery is already open, flooding the street with the smell of fresh bread.
My waiter spots us from inside and nods in recognition, already preparing my usual order.
"You have a usual order," Dylan says, sounding delighted. "After one week."
"I'm consistent." I lead him to my favorite table, the one in the corner where you can watch the whole street. "And Pierre makes the best café crème in Paris."
"Pierre?"
"I don't actually know his name. But he looks like a Pierre."
Dylan laughs, and the sound draws several people's attention to us. He doesn't notice. His attention is completely on me, like I'm the most fascinating thing in France.
When maybe-Pierre brings our coffee and croissants, Dylan takes his first bite and groans. "Okay, you weren't exaggerating. This is obscene."
"Right?" I tear off a piece of my own croissant, butter flaking everywhere. "I've had one every morning. Sometimes two."
We sit there for over an hour while I tell him about my solo week. Dylan listens intently, asking questions, holding my hand across the small table. When I finish, he's quiet for a moment.
"I'm proud of you," he says finally. "For proving to yourself what I already knew—that you're complete exactly as you are."
The words settle into my chest, warm and sure. "Thank you for letting me go. For not making me feel guilty about wanting time alone."
"You needed it." He squeezes my hand. "And honestly? Knowing you chose to come back to me after proving you didn't need me? That means everything."
We spend the afternoon wandering through Montmartre, climbing the steep streets hand in hand.
The neighborhood is charming in the daylight—art studios with paintings displayed on easels outside, small boutiques selling vintage clothing and handmade jewelry, cafés with colorful awnings and flower boxes.
At a vintage bookstore tucked down a narrow alley, Dylan disappears into the stacks while I browse poetry near the front. When he returns, he's holding something wrapped in brown paper. "For you," he says, handing it to me.
I unwrap it carefully. It's the first edition of The Great Gatsby. The cover is worn soft with age, the pages slightly yellowed. Inside the front cover, someone has written in faded ink: For my love, who sees me completely.
"You told me once it was your favorite," he says quietly. "That first week we were working together, during one of those late nights. You said Fitzgerald understood that the most painful kind of love is loving someone for who you want them to be instead of who they are."
I barely remember it, but my heart does somersaults.
"Thank you," I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. I stand on my toes to kiss him. "This is perfect."
We kiss on street corners and bridges, take silly photos in front of a carousel that's closed for repairs, eat crepes from a street vendor, and get powdered sugar on our noses.
It's playful and romantic and easy in a way I never experienced with Oliver.
There's no pressure to perform. No walking on eggshells.
I'm just myself. And Dylan looks at me like I hung the moon.
That evening, we have dinner at a small bistro in Saint-Germain-des-Prés that Dylan found online.
The restaurant is tiny—maybe ten tables—with exposed brick walls and candles flickering in wine bottles.
We order coq au vin and a bottle of red wine that the waiter recommends, and when the food arrives, it's the kind of perfection that makes me want to cry.
"Oh my god," I moan around the first bite, then immediately blush when I realize how loud I was.
Dylan watches me with such open affection that my face heats further. "What?"
"This is so delicious."
We share chocolate mousse for dessert—rich and dark and obscenely good—and Dylan tells me about the past week in San Francisco. About the Miller acquisition finally closing, about Jake's latest dating disaster, about his mother asking when we're coming to dinner again.
"She likes you better than me now," Dylan says with mock offense. "Last week, she called to ask for your opinion on a legal matter. Didn't even ask if I was available."
"What legal matter?"
"Something about easement rights for the neighbor's fence. I don't know, I got offended and stopped listening."
I laugh, imagining Margaret bypassing her CEO son to call me. "Cute.."
"I know you are." Dylan's smile is gorgeous.
At sunset, we walk along the Seine, the city turning golden around us. Boats glide past on the water, their lights beginning to glow in the gathering dusk. Street musicians play somewhere close, accordion music drifting through the evening air.
Dylan stops on Pont des Arts, the bridge covered in love locks that couples have attached to the railing. He turns to face me, and there's something nervous in his expression that makes my pulse quicken.
"Avery, I need to tell you something," he says.
"You do?" I ask, barely breathing.
"These past seven days without you were the longest of my life. And I kept thinking about what I wanted to say when I saw you again. I had this whole speech planned—" He laughs slightly. "But now that you're here, all I can think is: I'm in love with you."
The words land in my chest like truth.
"I'm totally gone for you from the first day, and I want everything with you, Avery," Dylan continues, his gray eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"I want the fights and the make-ups. I want your terrible hot coffee in the morning and your cold feet at night.
I want to meet you halfway on every decision.
I want to have trips with you. I want to build a life where we both get to be exactly who we are—ambitious and independent and together. "
He pauses, and then I gasp when he drops to one knee and pulls a small box from his pocket.
"Oh my god," I whisper, forgetting how to breathe. Passersby glance back at the scene—someone even stops—but all I see is him. This gorgeous man is kneeling in front of me. I can see him gathering courage for what comes next.
"I know it's fast, but," he opens the box, "Avery Cole, will you marry me? I know we've only been together a few months. But I also know what I want. And it's you. A future with you. Everything." His voice drops. "If you're ready."
Tears slip down my cheeks, but I'm smiling so hard my face hurts. "Yes." I hear myself say. "Yes, yes! I'm ready now."
Dylan's expression transforms—surprise giving way to hope, giving way to pure joy. "Really?"
"Of course. I'm all in. Now, come here." I step closer, and as he rises, I grab his shirt and pull him closer, never to let go. Rising on my toes, I kiss him. Desperately. Joyfully. Perfectly.
We kiss on the bridge as the sun sets over Paris, and I feel like I've stepped into a moment I'll remember forever.
His hands cradle my face. I taste salt from my own tears, feel his smile against my mouth.
Applause erupts around us. I'd forgotten about the crowd.
A small group has gathered, and a street musician started playing something romantic.
Someone whistles. Someone else shouts congratulations in French.
Dylan laughs, his forehead pressed to mine. "We have an audience."
"Yeah," I whisper.
His fingers are trembling slightly as he takes out the ring—a stunning diamond that catches the golden light of the setting sun. He takes my hand gently, and with infinite care, he slides the ring onto my finger.
More applause. More cheers. I wave with my left hand, and the crowd goes wild. Dylan keeps his arm firmly around my waist.
When we finally make our way back to his hotel, the air between us is charged with something more than just attraction.
It's intimacy. It's trust. It's the knowledge that we're choosing each other completely.
Dylan opens the door to his suite, and I stop in the doorway.
He has a balcony overlooking the city with fairy lights strung up, casting everything in warm golden light.
There's wine chilling in a bucket, two glasses waiting, and rose petals scattered across the floor leading to the balcony.
"When did you do this?" I ask, my voice thick with emotion.
"Called ahead before my flight." Dylan wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I wanted tonight to be special."
I tilt my head back to look at him, a teasing smile playing on my lips. "Pretty presumptuous, ordering all this before I even said yes."
"Confident," he corrects, pressing a kiss to my temple.
"What if I'd said no?"
"Then we would still have had this very romantic dinner, but I would still call you my girlfriend, not fiancée."
I bite my lip, warmth flooding through me at the word. "Fiancée. God, that sounds better."
"Doesn't it?" He kisses me softly, and my smile against his lips is my unspoken answer.