Chapter 19 #2
I remembered him from my last trip—same posture, same expression, same permanent air of a man who had never once lost an argument and did not intend to start now.
His gaze flicked to the bag in my hand.
Evidence.
“Lunch,” I said, because I am very good at stating obvious facts under scrutiny.
Rachel glanced over, relief crossing her face, and said something to René in French—fast, fluid, effortless—before switching back to English.
“Oh—this is Dominic. My boyfriend.”
The word buoyed me, particularly with how she said it. Didn’t matter which language she spoke, she was claiming me.
René looked back at me. Longer this time, as though he wasn’t sure what to categorize me under, despite Rachel’s introduction.
I barely noticed.
I was still stuck on the way French slid out of her mouth like it belonged there. Not practiced. Not careful. Just… natural. Like this version of her had always existed and I was only now being allowed to see it.
“Dominic,” he repeated, testing the name like a clause he might strike.
I nodded. “René. We’ve met. Briefly.”
He inclined his head a fraction. Not a greeting. An acknowledgment of record. “You are visiting,” he said.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
I glanced at Rachel. “Still under negotiation.”
That earned me the faintest twitch of his mouth. The legal equivalent of a smirk.
“Do not steal her for too long,” he said. “She is already behind.”
Rachel started to object. “René—”
René said something else in French to Rachel—short, clipped, but not unkind. She nodded automatically, already half turning back toward her desk.
He lifted a hand in a small, decisive gesture. “Eat,” he told her.
Then he looked at me again.
“And you. Feed her. She forgets.”
That one caught me off guard.
Not because it was rude—because it wasn’t. It was… jurisdictional. Like he was asserting standing over her well-being. Not threatening. Just establishing precedent.
Then he turned and walked away without further comment, case closed.
I leaned closer to Rachel. “So… was that a good French warning or a bad one?”
She smiled faintly. “That was a concerned French warning.”
I nodded solemnly. “The most dangerous kind.”
She snorted quietly. “He was being gentle.”
“Deeply unsettling.” I handed her the bag. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Margaux watching us with open interest. At my raised brows, she just grinned before returning to her work. It wasn’t until after Rachel and I had lunch—well, I had lunch, she ate in fits and starts, but she did eat—that Margaux drifted over in my direction.
“René approves of you more than most.”
I wasn’t sure if that was reassurance or a veiled threat, but either way—I felt absurdly proud.
Because I had just been evaluated by the human embodiment of professional disapproval… and apparently, he didn’t hate me. He could give my whole family lessons.
We walked back toward her apartment later, slower this time. The city had shifted into afternoon light, softer, warmer.
“I feel like I should apologize for my life,” Rachel said suddenly.
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious. It’s… a lot.”
“I didn’t come for easy,” I said. “I came for you.”
She didn’t answer right away, but when she did, she said, “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
The hours melted away, and she promised the stop at the Sorbonne would be quick.
“One hour,” she’d said, already pulling me toward the métro. “I promise.”
I believed her. Mostly because she looked like she meant it—and partly because I wanted to see this version of her too.
Campus Rachel was different in subtle ways. The same person, but sharper at the edges. She walked faster. Listened harder. Switched into French without thinking, the language settling into her voice like it had always been there.
I sat in the back of the lecture hall while she presented—quietly, respectfully, trying not to look like the obvious outsider with the accent and a jacket folded over my arm.
She was good.
Not polished in a rehearsed way, but focused.
Engaged. She used a remote to flip through the photographs.
All of them were hers, I suspected. I tried to see what she did, what the other students did.
I could only follow part of the conversation—and it was one.
She asked questions and the students responded as thoughtfully.
Watching her work through ideas out loud—even in another language—felt strangely intimate, like being allowed into an exclusive club room most people never saw.
She glanced at me once, mid-sentence.
Just a flicker of a smile.
Then she was back to her work.
The promised hour passed faster than it should have.
When she finally slipped out to meet me, she looked relieved and exhausted at the same time. The kind of tired that comes from being on for too long.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s done.”
“For now,” I teased. “Based on what I saw, I’d give you an A.”
She snorted. “You don’t even know what I was presenting.”
“I know you looked confident doing it,” I said. “And that usually means you know exactly what you’re talking about.”
That earned me a look. The kind that said don’t flatter me, even as the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“You took all those pictures, right?” I asked.
“I did.” Just for a second, her teeth scraped over her lower lip.
“They were beautiful.”
She actually stopped walking.
“You liked them?” she asked, quieter now.
“I did,” I said easily. “And I know I’m not your target audience, but I’m a very reliable sample size of one.”
That got a laugh.
“I liked how they felt,” I added. “They weren’t just pretty. They felt like you were actually seeing the people in them.”
Something in her face softened at that. Not relief exactly—more like being understood without having to explain herself.
Then I smiled. “Plus, I definitely liked them.”
Her cheeks warmed again.
Rachel really wasn’t built for compliments. It was why I needed to shower her with them. She really was so damn talented.
We walked back toward the métro, the late afternoon light slanting between buildings, the city easing into evening.
“I was supposed to do another night shoot,” she said casually, like it hadn’t been bothering her. “But it got rescheduled.”
I glanced at her. “Meaning?”
She slowed half a step, then smiled. “Meaning I’m yours tonight.”
The temptation that lived in that sentence took me hostage.
“Dangerous thing to say,” I replied.
She bumped her shoulder against mine. “So what do you want to do?”
I considered it. A hundred options flickered through my mind—dinner, wine, a museum, staying in bed until we forgot what time was.
But before I could answer, she added, almost shyly, “Of course… it is soup night.”
I laughed. She’d told me about it in voice notes, always with this quiet warmth in her voice. “Is it?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Then, softer, “We can go out if you want. Or…”
She was giving me an out. A real one.
“Soup night sounds perfect,” I said. “Should we grab wine on the way?”
That earned me one of her rare, open smiles. “No, it’s Quan’s turn this week. Jules gets the soup. But—we can grab bread.”
I took her hand as we climbed the stairs from the métro. “Then lead on, Flash. Show me where the good bread lives.”
By the time we reached her building, several warm baguettes in a bag and the smell making my stomach ache pleasantly, Rachel had grown visibly lighter. More animated. Like she’d finally exhaled.
Public Rachel.
Professional Rachel.
Academic Rachel.
And now this one.
The one who just wanted to sit on the stairs with a bowl of soup and stop the world from asking anything of her for a while.
For the first time all day, she wasn’t running.
She was walking—with me.