Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
JO
The city wakes up slowly around us, and I feel like I’ve woken up inside a painting.
Pont Neuf stretches across the Seine like a ribbon of history, its stone arches soft in the morning light.
Fog curls along the water, curling like slow-moving smoke from a lazy fire, and the reflections of the bridges and the early boats shimmer on the river’s surface.
I can hear the faint scrape of oars somewhere downstream, a gull crying in the distance, and the gentle hum of a city stirring to life.
Axel falls into step beside me, his hand brushing mine as we cross the bridge.
I don’t pull away. I feel the brush, the warmth, the unspoken invitation in it.
“Do you like Paris in the morning?” he asks, his voice low.
I tilt my head, studying the way the early sunlight catches the edges of his hair. “Yes. Very much so. I never imagined I would ever see it like this, quiet, before everyone else floods the streets.”
He tips his lips into a crooked grin, and I catch that naughty glint in his eyes, the one that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s about to say something brazen or charming.
“It’s the only way to see it properly,” he says. “Later, it becomes chaos. Right now, it’s ours.”
He said something charming. I smile, feeling a thrill run through me at the way he says ours.
There’s something incredibly intimate in claiming the city for just the two of us.
The air smells damp and alive with the ever-present smell of baking bread and the river.
It also carries the faint hint of coffee and pastries from cafes that have already opened.
I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, feeling like I could stay suspended in this moment forever.
We pause halfway across the bridge, leaning against the stone railing.
I peer over it, fascinated by the Seine’s gentle ripples, the way it glints like liquid gold in the morning light.
Boats lazily drift past, their wakes sending tiny waves lapping at the bridge’s foundation.
On the far bank, the narrow streets twist and curve, the skyline filled with rooftops punctuated with chimneys that smoke idly.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur. “Just wandering, looking, not thinking about anything else.”
Axel’s hand brushes against mine… and lingers.
We cross the last span of the bridge and step onto ?le Saint-Louis, and the world seems to shift from a modern city to something older with more character.
The streets here are narrow, cobbled, and almost silent except for the occasional click of a boot against stone.
Each building is a different shade of cream, beige, or ochre, its shutters painted in dusty greens and blues, ivy climbing lazily up the walls.
Little balconies overflow with plants, supporting tiny window boxes spilling over with blooms. It feels wonderfully intimate and familiar, like stepping into a favorite storybook.
I wander close to one of the windows of the small shops, a little art gallery tucked into the curve of the street. Inside the glass are hand-painted postcards and delicate prints. Axel leans toward me.
“Pick one of the prints,” he says, a teasing tilt to his lips.
I already know I’ll choose something that reminds me of this morning. “That one,” I say, pointing at a delicate watercolor of the Seine in the morning light.
He nods approvingly, his eyes sparkling. “Excellent taste. Exactly what I would have chosen.”
My chest warms at the compliment.
He goes inside and quickly comes back out with a small striped bag.
Next, we duck into a tiny boutique selling artisanal soaps and candles.
The air is scented with lavender, rose, and a faint hint of something earthy I can’t quite place.
I think maybe it’s sage. My fingers brush over the soaps, feeling the smooth textures.
I pick up a small bar, inhaling the scent of sweet oranges.
“Do you want it?” Axel asks.
I nod, heading for the counter, but he takes it from me.
“It’s on me, but I want you to promise to use some tonight,” Axel says, his eyes suddenly dark with desire.
“I promise. Maybe I’ll even dream of you when I use it.”
He smiles and shakes his head, but I know he’s pleased with my response, as he goes to the counter and pays for the soap.
We leave the boutique and continue down the street until we reach the famous Berthillon ice cream shop.
Even at this early hour, there’s a line of people waiting.
The tiny bell above the door jingles as we enter, and the smell of fresh cream and sugar envelops us like a big friendly hug.
I peer at the display behind the glass, my eyes wide at the vivid colors.
I read the flavors from the cards, and I am glad they are written in both French and English.
There are pistachio, raspberry, salted caramel, chocolate orange, lavender, praline and so many others, I have to stop.
I can’t possibly choose if I take in any more options.
“What are you getting?” I ask him.
He glances at the array and frowns thoughtfully. “Something daring. Something you’ll never expect.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, is that a challenge?”
He grins. “Maybe. What about you? Are you going safe or wild?”
I consider his question, scanning the tubs again. The lavender calls to me, delicate and unusual, almost ethereal. I think it counts as a wilder choice. It’s not something you see every day.
“Lavender,” I decide.
“We’re going wild, then,” he says, turning toward me with a look that’s half amusement, half admiration. “I like you wild.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I tease, brushing past him to the counter.
I watch as he makes his choice, noticing his little quirks, like how his fingers tap lightly on the counter as he waits.
Finally, we step back outside, cones in hand, the morning sun warming our faces.
I take a cautious lick and taste the subtle floral flavor blooming on my tongue.
Axel watches me, a grin spreading across his face, before he leans in, mock-serious.
“Your verdict?”
“Surprisingly good. Much better than I imagined,” I say.
I hold the cone up for him to try it. He licks the ice cream cautiously and considers the flavor.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s … I don’t know. I can’t decide if I like it or not.” He holds his cone out towards me. “Here. Try mine. Salted caramel with a hint of chili.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, and taste it. It is sweet, buttery, with just a faint, thrilling burn at the end.
“Oh. That’s … daring and unexpected.”
His grin widens, triumphant. “You like it?”
I nod. “I do. Maybe I need a little more daring in my life.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm, carrying across the empty street. “I could definitely arrange that,” he murmurs, his eyes locking on mine. There’s an unspoken promise in the look, a thrill that makes my pulse skip.
We wander further, meandering past tiny book shops and boutiques, the quiet streets make the city feel like it belongs only to us.
I notice little details, paint peeling on shutters, a wrought iron balcony with flowers, a bronze statue, the way the sunlight flickers across the cobblestones.
Axel notices things too, pointing out a carved door frame here, a hidden fresco there, and I feel a shared sense of discovery between us.
Finally, we reach the Notre Dame gardens. Even in its sad and damaged state, the cathedral holds a kind of solemn beauty that cannot be denied. The charred and skeletal upper sections contrast sharply with the manicured lawns and flowerbeds below, creating a surreal, almost poetic juxtaposition.
We wander among the gardens, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, passing fountains that glint in the sunlight.
The ruined facade rises above us, quiet and monumental, a testament to resilience.
I feel a shiver at the stark beauty, the quiet strength as I glance at Axel.
He’s studying the cathedral as intently as I am, but turns to me when he catches me looking at him.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I whisper.
He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. “It is,” he says softly. “It is the nature of the world. Nothing is forever, so every moment is precious.”
My breath catches, and I feel a strange warmth spread through me. Confused, I glance away and pretend to look at a rosebush.
We wander to a bench beneath a row of linden trees, the dappled sunlight falling in patches on the gravel.
I sit down, savoring the quiet serenity of the moment, the way the city feels suspended around us.
Axel sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch lightly, and the contact sends a thrill through me.
Axel stretches one arm along the back of the bench behind me.
Not touching me. Just resting close enough for me to feel the heat from his skin.
Casual in a kind of possessive way that I must admit to liking.
“So,” he says, watching a little boy chase pigeons with ruthless determination. “Explain something to me.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“These street names.” He gestures vaguely behind us. “Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche. Street of the Fishing Cat. Who names things like that?”
I grin. “It’s charming.”
“It’s unhinged.”
“It’s poetic,” I counter. “Imagine living on a street named after a fishing cat. That’s infinitely better than living on, say, Industrial Estate Road.”
He huffs a reluctant laugh. “You’re such a romantic.”
“You like that about me.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I do.”