I write stuff!

You had never really talked to him. Both of you had great potential, but only one of you was using it, and it sure as hell wasn’t you. You were failing a bunch of classes and barely passing the rest of them. It’s not that you weren’t “smart enough”, you just couldn’t bring yourself to care about all the essays and projects you were supposed to do. A professor’s voice was like a lullaby to you, as you spent most classes sleeping. You loved spending hours studying as much information as you could, just not in class. He, on the other hand, loved showing how intellectually superior he was than everyone in Nevermore. He had nearly perfect scores if not downright flawless at every exam, he always brought the most amazing projects to make everyone gasp in awe, even the teachers who usually spent the classes thinking about their dreams crushed by their job couldn’t tear their eyes away. And then they went back to belittling you. But you had one thing he didn’t, a social life. Sometimes you felt bad for him, his only friend was Gomez, and that sounded painful. You would even catch yourself staring at him… until he glared right back at you. You had caught a glimpse of his notes once, something about building a machine related to outcasts’ abilities. That sounded interesting, maybe in another far, far away life you could’ve been friends. You knew he probably saw you as a waste of space, but then again he was probably gonna die of old age alone so you didn’t mind. 

You were barely woken up when you first heard the whispers, walking in the cafeteria, looking disgustingly tired, barely registering the smell of smoke in the air. At first you were too busy yawning to pay attention to the meaning of the words which were reaching you. Then you heard a name: Isaac. Then a word: explosion. You perked up. Huh? You scooted closer to your friends, now listening. 

“They all survived but Francoise and Isaac are still unconscious.”

“Apparently he lost his hand.”

“They were trying to use a machine he built himself, it was supposed to “cure” her or something. But we still gotta hear Morticia’s version.” 

“Well, he’s definitely getting expelled.” 

“Finally. I can't stand this guy.”

You chimed in. “Are they gonna be okay?”

“I think so. Well, if we ignore the whole lost hand thing.”

“I heard that they found it and it looks like a big grilled piece of shit now.”

You dissociated again. That’s what these notes were about. Francoise was a nice girl, you had always felt sorry for her, she clearly despised her condition, and without a master she didn’t have a lot of time left. And he barely survived childhood himself because of his heart. You wondered how it held up after the accident. Would he even still have his ability after losing his hand? 

You spent the next few days thinking about it. This poor guy had almost lost his life trying to save his sister’s and everyone was just taking the opportunity to dunk on him. You had passed by the nursery multiple times and looked at him through the little window on the door. Sometimes you caught him staring at where his hand used to be, the rest of the time he was reading or talking to his sister. You didn’t want to invade his space so you just watched. Morticia and Gomez never really told the details of how everything happened, of how his hand got cut clean in an explosion. Isaac and Francoise didn’t say anything either. Since Isaac had been the brains behind the operation he would be expelled when he fully recovered and the rest of the participants had been suspended for a month. You didn’t even know that was possible. You were sitting on your desk, trying to study biology and you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The guy had had a miserable life so far, was probably gonna lose his sister, had no friends, even Gomez left him, a terrible personality and he kind of looked like a wet sock. That’s when the idea first emerged. You looked at some old notes. Should you..? No. Absolutely not. Or maybe…

You took a deep breath in and walked inside, your hands sweating on the box you were holding. A month had passed since you had started working on this little “gift”. Now it was ready for him, thankfully it wasn’t your first time doing something like that, so the creating process was shorter. When he saw you walk in, he frowned and looked around to see if you were here for someone else, but he was the only one in the room. 

“Hey, Isaac…” 

“Who are you?”

“Oh, come on. You know who I am.”

“Well, what do you want?” You held back an insult and carefully put the box on his lap. 

“I am gravely injured, you know the weight of your dirty box could’ve sent me right back into coma, right?”

“Just open it. Please.” He hesitated before finally listening to you and opening the box. Inside, a shining hand made of metal laid. He read the little note next to it. “Get well soon.” He stayed silent. Was that good or bad? His face was completely neutral. 

“Who do you think you are?” You were too stunned to answer. “What do you think you’re doing, invading my space like that? Take that piece of trash and get out of here!” You couldn’t believe it. A month. A month of hard work just…You quickly took the box back. 

“Jesus christ that’s why you have no friends you-” You didn’t know what to say that was insulting enough so you just threw his books off his nightstand, ignored his offended gasp and left the room. 

Two days passed and you were still fuming in your room when you heard a knock on your door. Behind it was…Isaac. You slammed the door shut. 

“I’ll find a way in so just open up.” You hesitated before slowly opening the door again.

“What do you want?”

“Maybe I do need your help with my hand…or lack thereof.”

“So?”

“I’m…” He breathed in like the next words would drain him of blood. “...sorry.”

“...”

“I’m sorry.” His face looked even paler.

“Okay, come in.” 

“So, that’s how you put it on.” You were both sitting on your bed and he was looking at his new hand from all the possible angles. 

“I’ll need your notes to see how you built that.” He inhaled. “Thank you.” 

“No problem. I’ll show you all the functions it has.” He stretched his fingers, then grabbed every object he could see nearby, the room was now comfortably silent. 

“So…” He started. “Why do you let all this talent go to waste?”

“Why did Morticia cut your hand?” He quickly turned his face towards you. “It was obvious!” He stayed silent. “Okay, I guess you don’t have to tell me.” You waited for him to talk.

“You have to show me all those functions soon. I’m leaving next week.”

“the hell?” nate squints at the bottle in his hand, scrutinizing the label with furrowed brows. “i can’t even sound this out phonetically. . .”

he tries anyway, ultimately spouting some sort of gibberish that even he knows isn’t right. that’s what prompts you to hit the corner rather amusedly, slinking from the aisle you were browsing to step up to his side with a curious eye.

“you’re not from around here, non?”

he startles at your intrusion, hand flying to splay over his chest. you tilt your head, scoping him from head to toe.

il est très beau!

he collects himself, then smiles down at you sheepishly. “is it that obvious?”

“a little.” you narrow your eyes, soaking in his entire person. he shifts under your gaze and pockets his hands, expression somewhat searching as he deciphers your words beneath their thick accent. eventually, he figures out what you said—like he was translating it this whole time—and you catch the exact moment he does.

“how’d you know i’m not french? do i have a look, or something?” he asks, his boyish beam widening.

you decide against admitting you’d heard him through the shelves, assuming he’s probably embarrassed enough already. hefting your tote a little higher upon your shoulder, you nod. “oui.”

his brows bunch slightly but his grin remains. “that means ‘yes’, right? i don’t know whether to be flattered or ashamed.”

you return his broad smile with one of your own, lips parting to reveal your teeth. his eyes dart down, then back up. “i say. . . ashamed.”

“i can work with that.” he smirks, the corner of his mouth quirking into a perfectly acute angle. “you’re french.”

it takes every ounce of your inner-strength to not grace him with a swift ‘duh’. “most people here are.”

he chuckles, glancing down at his feet as he rocks back and forth on their heels slightly, before looking back at you with a glint in his eye. “and funny, too.”

you find yourself unable to resist his american charm and bow your head, humoring him with a sweet smile. “merci.”

“you’re welcome.” he flashes his teeth at you, cheeks dimpling like smooth leather.

“très bien!” you compliment, earning you a quizzical look. “your french is quite good. well, your. . . understanding of it.”

“merci.” he replies, mimicking not only your accent (rather poorly) but also the way in which you bowed your head. “but i think everybody knows that one.”

“you’d be surprised.” you scoff, eyes dancing over the bottles that decorate the shelf beside you. “if there is one thing i know about you americans, it’s that you can be. . . how you might say—”

“ignorant.” he finishes on your behalf with a knowing smirk, not offended at all it would seem.

“ah, oui!” you glide your finger against the wooden surface of the shelf, leaving a clean smudge in its wake as you remove a layer of dust. if there’s another thing you know about them, it’s that they’re also pretty charismatic. strangely, the longer you spend in his company, the more unsure of yourself you become. “most only know ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. in french, i mean.” you won’t say why you felt the need to clarify that; you’ve put his people to shame on the behalf of france already.

“is this where i tell you that i don’t know what the french word for ‘please’ is?” he grins self-deprecatingly, one hand freeing itself from his pocket to drag through his short, shaggy hair.

you can’t help a small smile. “can you count to ten?”

he appears taken aback, before clearing his throat. “uh, yeah? one, two, three, four—”

your laughter cuts him off. “in french!”

he stares at you for a moment, then dissolves into a fit of laughter of his own. it’s deep and hearty. “oh, right. let’s see here, uhm.” he pauses, thinking. “un, deux. . . trois? uh, quatre—”

you stop him at five—or cinq—with an impressed arch of your brow. “usually, they only make it to three, and get it mixed up with spanish. it sounds something like ‘uno, dos, trois’. or ‘un, deux, tres’. anyway, i believe you. well done.”

he deliberately puffs his chest out a bit, expression smug. “so i get brownie points?”

you frown. “quoi?”

“uh. . . okay, bear with me while i try to remember the, like, one french class i accidentally signed-up for in high school. marron. . . points?” his eyes dart between your amused ones.

“even in my mother tongue, that means nothing to me.” you pat his forearm, trying not to guffaw in the poor man’s face. “don’t worry.”

he huffs out, the force of it shifting his bangs across his forehead. “understandable. it’s an american idiom, after all. i think.”

“any word that starts with the letters i-d-i-o probably is.” you quip, revelling in the way it takes him a second or two to catch on.

“ooh, ouch. that mother tongue of yours is sharp!”

you smile proudly and lean your weight onto one hip. “so i get these. . . ‘brownie points’, then?”

“like i could say no to a face like yours if i tried.” he murmurs, the mood suddenly shifting.

he appears to watch you more closely now, almost like he’s admiring you. maybe he is. “oh? you’ll take me to get coffee, then?”

“let me see if i can fit that into my bustling schedule.” he plucks an imaginary planner from his pocket and licks his thumb, before pretending to flick through its invisible pages. “well, i’ll be. looks like i’ve got a whole lot of nothing to do.”

“ah, lucky me.” you shy away from his sultry gaze, now staring more intently at the wine labels than he was before. you crinkle your nose when you notice the one he was looking at. “don’t get this one! it’s italian.”

“and here i thought i was in france.” he grins goofily, eyes shimmering at you. he hasn’t looked at the wine once since you decided to interrupt him.

“you’re in a mediterranean winery.” you tell him, tipping your head in the direction of the shop’s sign. “i only come here because i know the owner.”

“am i not in a mediterranean country?” he counters, and it’s so confidently spoken that you almost feel bad for educating him.

“non! the southern coastline borders the mediterranean sea, but france is of european norms and lifestyle. you will notice the culture here in paris is far different to the southernmost cities.”

he stares blankly at you, blue eyes dancing in a triangular pattern between your eyes and down to your mouth.

“there is a difference between continent and intercontinental.”

he simply nods, and you’re fairly certain your words just went in one ear and out the other.

“if it’s local you’re looking for, i have plenty at home.” you suggest. his brows almost kiss his hairline, so you know he’s definitely listening now. “local wine, i mean.”

he gives you a bashful, lopsided smile. “i wasn’t assuming otherwise, promise. and i might just take you up on that.” he rubs the back of his neck, and this time it’s you who’s smirking.

straightening your coat and neatening your hair, you give him a clipped nod. “i have to work now,” you throw your thumb back, pointing over your shoulder at the café across the boutiquey street. “but you can meet me there at five.”

he glances at it sparingly, then his eyes snap back to you like a rubber band. “yes, ma’am.”

you shoot him a playful glare and he splutters to correct himself. “uh, madame?”

“mademoiselle is fine.” you tell him, already turning away.

“mademoiselle, it is.” he raises his voice slightly as you approach the door. “but i assume you have a name to go with it?”

“i might.” you twist at the waist to waggle your fingers at him, then flounce out into the morning.

he watches you leave, eyes staying glued to the door after you’re gone. smiling to himself, he casts one last look at the wine selection, before he finds himself practically floating out onto the street with a skip in his stride and a schoolboy giddiness about him.

your heels click as you arrive out front. adjusting your beret and fixing your skirt, you move to walk inside.

“saved you a seat.”

you swivel at the voice, plaited skirt swishing at your sides. he’s sitting at one of the outdoor tables, a long bed of flowers walling it off from the street side. “you’re already here.”

he sips from a glass of lemon water, the jug acting as a centerpiece on the table. with a half-smile, he tips his chin to you. “you said five, right?” he consults his watch, and from where you’re standing, you can tell he’s got your monthly salary wrapped around that wrist. “it’s five on the dot.”

“i haven’t kept you waiting?” you say with a hint of guilt. americans take these things literally, apparently. normal people tend to agree on a time and meet up within the ten-minute window after said time.

“the wait was worth it.” he smiles a little wider, filling your glass with water. it sloshes slightly, but he doesn’t seem to notice since his eyes are fixated on you. that’s probably why it sloshed in the first place. “but seriously, i sat down about two minutes ago.”

you nod and hook your bag over the back of your seat. “is this where we clink?”

he gives you a small, confused frown. “clink?”

“that’s what you say when you drink, isn’t it?” you raise your glass.

he lets out a loud laugh, turning a few disgruntled heads. “you mean ‘cheers’, and sure, when the drinks in question are alcoholic. unless. . . does french water have a high alcohol content?”

“are you making a derogatory joke about my country?” you ask, keeping a straight face.

a look of panic dashes across his face. “what—? no, of course not! wait. . . i don’t get it.”

you snort. “foreigners like to joke that we drink too much.” you say with a soft smile so he knows you were only messing with him.

he visibly relaxes. “oh. well, i wasn’t aware of that. i promise, even if i was, i wasn’t trying to offend.”

“i don’t believe you have a bad bone in your body.” you tell him, tapping your foot reassuringly against his shin beneath the table.

“deep analysis considering we only met some eight hours ago and we don’t even know each other’s names.” but he still seems pleased, his cheeks creasing with a smile like they did this morning.

you shrug. “i’m a good judge of character—even if i did find you trying to buy wine at nine in the morning.” you smirk when he rolls his eyes.

“stocking up for the time that i’m here, thank you very much.” he looks you over, eyes peering above the rim of his glass as he takes a sip.

“wait!” you hold yours out expectantly to which he chuckles, then dings it with his.

“clink.”

this time it’s your turn to roll your eyes. you quench your thirst, relishing the lemon’s bitterness, then start to peruse the menu.

“so what would you recommend?” he hums, eyes narrowing to scan the specials board by the entrance.

“nothing from there.” you say matter-of-factly, then flip your menu shut. “you’ll have the same as me.”

“i will?” he shrinks at your stern gaze, reclining into the wicker of his seat with a creak. “uh. . . i mean, i will.”

you nod and flag a waiter. “deux moules marinière, s'il vous plait.” you smile sweetly, then order two glasses of wine to go with.

“so that’s how you say please.” nate grins, making a mental note; though he wishes he had a pen so he could make a real one. “moules.” he repeats your order after a moment of silence, mulling it over. “okay, well it’s not mollusc, at least.”

“do you think snails are all we eat?” you challenge half-heartedly, then take a slice of bread from the basket at the center. he follows your lead, but takes a lazy bite from the crusted end while you take the time to smother yours in butter.

“yep.” he smirks as he chews, eyes flashing with the same mischief from this morning. “partial to amphibians too, i hear.”

you grow warm and pretend to focus on your knife as you spread the butter, but your mind is on the man in front of you. “it is muscles.”

“what if i’m allergic to shell fish?” he queries, taking another slice. you shake your head as he fills up on carbs; meanwhile, you’ve not even made a start.

eyeing him carefully, you shrug. “well, are you?”

“no, but i could’ve been, for all you knew.” he rubs his hands together, raining crumbs over the table cloth. you arch a brow. “are you trying to kill me?”

“well, depending on the severity of this hypothetical allergic reaction, it’s liable to assume your windpipes would have contorted; meaning you would talk less.” you punctuate your words with a goading, jestful smile. he chuckles, tonguing his cheek.

he’s sure you meant to say constricted, but the current conversational theme makes him think better than to correct you.

“damn, savage.” he props his elbows atop the arms of his chair. “are you a man-eater, or something?”

“non.” you finish your appetizer, taking your time the way it’s intended. “i spit out my men after i’ve chewed them up.”

his smirk evolves into an amused smile, eyes gravitating south when you dab the corners of your mouth with your napkin before placing it in your lap. “not a man-eater, but still a savage.”

the waiter returns with two large glasses of wine, then sits the bottle between you.

“this is real wine.” you announce proudly, redirecting the conversation. “grape of my country. try.”

you nod for him to drink and his eyes remain trained on yours a little longer before he does as he’s bid. just as he’s about to swallow, you stop him with a gasp.

“no, no.” you wave your hand disapprovingly and his cheeks bulge like a gerbil’s as he holds the wine on his tongue, brows furrowed as he tries not to choke. “good wine must be appreciated. coat the roof of your mouth, like so.” you show him how, swishing the wine within your mouth before allowing it down the hatch.

he observes with genuine interest, then mirrors you. he licks his lips, then purses them. “oh, wow. that’s some good stuff.”

“what do you smell?” you prompt, swirling the contents of your glass before raising it to your nose and inhaling.

mostly, the floral notes of your perfume with subtle hints of honey and amber, but he knows what you mean. “citrus? and, uh, pear?” he’s talking out of his ass, but hopefully he’s along the right-ish lines.

“bien.” you smile, impressed. “you like it?”

phew.

“i do,” he gives you an inviting smile, gentlemanly and smooth. “more of a whiskey man myself, but it’s better than heineken.”

“i should think so.” you snort, then turn your face into your sleeve, embarrassed. “excuse me.”

nate flashes a small grin, a pair of crow’s feet stamping themselves onto his outer eyes. “you’re breathtaking when you laugh.”

it’s ironic of him to imply that when it’s you who’s suddenly short of breath. “oh, well. merci.”

he nods once, then frowns. “tell me, what’s french for ‘you’re welcome’?”

you smirk, a weak attempt at not laughing out of fear he’ll compliment you again. “we have many, ah. . . ways of saying so. just say avec plaisir. polite and semi-formal; it goes a long way.”

“with the ladies?” he beams at you and you shake your head, feeling yourself start to fall for that all-american allure. it’s breezy and effortless, which scares you.

“sure.” you become entranced by the flowers beside you, or pretend to be. your mind is on the conversation.

“i’ll make sure to be extra thankful around you, then.” and he has the audacity to wink. it’s only annoying because a burst of butterflies erupt within your belly. zut.

“mon dieu.” you groan, flattening your skirt before weaving your fingers together. ugh, why on earth are they clammy?

“for the sake of my ego and my probably utterly entitled hopes to see you again before i leave, i’m gonna tell myself that what you just said was an expression of joy. . . and maybe a little arousal?”

you can’t help it this time—almost spitting lemon water all over the front of his ralph lauren polo. “you are insatiable!”

he winks before allowing his expression to dissolve warmly. “actually, i’m nate.”

you tilt your head. “you’re. . . nate. like, celiac?”

he blinks, eyes shifting pointedly to the half-empty bread basket. “‘scuse me?”

your eyes dart between a mixture of embarrassed and confused. “sorry, this word is unfamiliar to me. what is a nate?”

“it’s not an autoimmune disease, i can tell you that.” he grins fondly, maybe even amusedly. “it’s short for nathaniel, is what it is.”

“ah, like the name.” then you realize. “oh, like the name! your name!”

he laughs. not at you, but just. . . laughs. you smile sheepishly.

“got it in two.” and he tips an imaginary fedora in congratulations.

“bonjour, nate. as in nathaniel, not the gluten intolerance.” and you wave your hand dramatically in front of you the way one would when curtsying to royalty.

his eyes crinkle again, swelling with something you can’t quite place. whatever it is, you go all gooey and mushy and stuff.

“bonjour, beautiful.”

as if hearing your racing pulse—and not the one in your chest, but moreso of the vaginal variety (porno magazine when?)—the waiter returns with your meals, presenting them on a good old silver platter. goodbye to ‘france isn’t like the movies!’, you guess.

dieu merci.

some days have past. you’ve yet to give him your name but you allowed him the honor of your digits. you’re sitting with your phone in-hand now, a glass of wine in the other. you’ve been texting back and forth, your thumb shimmying over the keypad. you giggle at the words that display on your screen, not a care for your giddiness in the comfort of your own home.

nate: so it turns out i do have a ‘look’! i wore a striped shirt today and some kid spat at me!

you: you weren’t carrying a baguette over your shoulder this time, non? because we don’t actually do that.

nate: no, i’ve learned my lesson. did i thank you for saving me, by the way?

you can’t help but laugh at the memory. it was two days ago, and you were meeting him at the café again. that time, it was you who arrived first. when he finally did, he had a baguette hooked under one arm and a box of macarons in the other; not to mention the look was topped off with a pair of circular sunglasses.

you: only a few times.

nate: looks like i’m behind schedule. thank you, beautiful.

it shouldn’t effect you, but it does—the evidence of it zipping up your spine to stain your cheeks. good job he can’t see you. taking a breath, you change the subject.

you: are you missing home?

nate: hardly. i wouldn’t have chosen to holiday somewhere so far away if i feared i’d miss it.

you: tell me.

nate: i don’t have enough credit to send that many messages. i might have enough minutes, though. call me?

you take your lip between your teeth, suddenly apprehensive. you’ve known him barely a week; this should so not be happening. not the friendly conversation, but the way it makes you feel.

you: isn’t it the woman who makes such requests?

sure, flirt a little. couldn’t hurt.

nate: you shouldn’t have to.

then his caller id flashes, your cell buzzing with his incoming call. you put your wine glass down, steeling yourself, and let it ring a few times ‘cause you’re not desperate!

“bonsoir, nathaniel.” smooth.

“hey, that’s autoimmune disease to you.”

you chuckle and so does he. “my apologies. so. . . to what do i owe the pleasure?”

“the pleasure’s all mine, actually.” his words are tight and merry, so you know they squeezed themselves through a smirk. the disruption of a gentle breeze distorts the signal slightly, so you suppose he’s walking. “i don’t really want to get into my reasons for needing to get away for a while. i did want to hear that pretty voice, though.”

the confession rockets a shiver through you. “you heard it only yesterday.”

“far too long ago.” he responds without missing a beat. “and i haven’t seen you today.”

“forgetting what i look like already?” you hope it comes across confidently, but there’s a waver to your tone and from the little you know of him, he’s receptive.

“i could get a literal lobotomy and i wouldn’t forget.”

you reach for your wine and take a gulp. he’s barely even done anything! get it together! “well, then, it sounds like you’ll survive the rest of your trip without me.”

there’s a pause on the line and the wind quietens down, so either he’s stopped, or he’s no longer outside. “i wouldn’t be so sure.”

there’s a knock at your door.

“you should get that.”

it was rather loud, so you don’t question how he heard it. erm, have you, like, never watched a movie? like ever? oh, girl.

“one moment.” you tell him, setting your cell down to answer the door.

when you pull it open, your heart lurches. he’s standing there, phone still raised to his ear. with a soft smile ghosting his lips, he speaks again, eyes never leaving you. “no rush.” then he snaps it shut, pocketing it along with his hand. “hey, you.”

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG.

“nate. . .” your mouth opens and closes a few times guppy-style. “how did you find where i live?”

he grins nervously like it’s only just occurred to him that this is lowkey creepy. “asked around. and by that i mean, i went back to the winery and asked the owner because you said you know him.”

you frown. “gabriela is not a man, nor does she work evenings.”

he’s silent for a moment, face blank. “oh, well i asked some random guy, then. of course, i still don’t know your name, so it was a whole lot of me gesturing that you’re yae-tall,” he gestures your height with his hand, just below his shoulder. “with hair about yae-long, and a face that’s yae-gorgeous.” and at that, his hand stretches as high as his arm will go. “only then did he seem to know who i meant.”

you beam so bright, you could dock a ship. “who needs bilingualism when you have sign language?”

he gives you a punctuating thumbs-up and you laugh. “well, you’ve gone to this much effort, so i suppose you can come inside.”

you move aside and he steps in. “well, considering i had no idea what the hell he was saying, i just went in the general direction he pointed and kept walking. lucky for me, you talk loudly. . . and with your windows open.” he turns to you, eyes full of that sparkle you still can’t decipher. “i guess i followed the sound of you voice, huh? and it was you who suggested i come here for the best local vin, anyway.”

“you learned a new word!” you give him a celebratory pat on the arm and you swear you feel a spark. someone get the welding helmet.

and if the look on his face is anything to go by, he felt it too. “anything for you.”

anything, huh? “let’s get you some of that wine.”

“please.” he trails after you as you pad to the kitchen, taking his time in looking around at his surroundings. “vintage—totally what i was expecting. i feel like i just teleported to the renaissance.”

“think yourself funny?” you ask with a raised brow, pouring him a generous glass.

“yeah,” he takes it with a smile, fingers brushing yours. he’s unhurried, allowing his touch to linger and only lifting the glass once you’ve pulled your hand away. “is it working?”

“is what working?” you retrieve your own glass before rejoining him. “are you trying to achieve something? because i do not think it’s a deeper understanding of merlot.”

with a sigh, he leans his elbow atop the counter and gazes at you with such intensity, that you don’t know whether you need to sneeze or get a haircut. just some good dick, probably.

“how about i tell you what i’m thinking.” he places his glass down, then reaches over to graze his fingertips against yours. they wander up, walking over the back of your hand, and up to your wrist where he squeezes.

“we skip the drinks and keep those windows open—since it would seem that unlike new york, paris does sleep and there’s no one else around—‘cause i leave tomorrow and your face isn’t the only thing i want to remember.”

“tomorrow?” you thought, no, hoped he’d be here a little longer.

“i have my whole life to get back to.” he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “i can’t stay forever, unfortunately.”

you part your lips to respond in your usual snarky way, but his mouth covers yours—killing your words before they’ve even formed upon your tongue.

a whimper escapes you at the suddenness of it, but he quenches it and seizes the chance to claim your tongue with his. they tangle together in a slow waltz, stroking and curling against one another. as you melt into it, he lets out a deep groan from the back of his throat when you match his urgency, caressing and probing his tongue with yours.

sensual despite the desperation and a week’s worth of pent-up desire. you’ve seen the yearning in his eyes, the way his pupils would blow and his ears would prick—their tips reddening.

then he starts to claw at you, hands coming to land at your back before they’re wrestling with your night gown.

“i’ve pictured doing this since that first day.” he breathes against your lips—swollen and kiss-bitten. he lights a few gentle kisses upon them again, pecking at your mouth between hushed words and bated breaths.

you surge forward to close the tiny gap that separates your faces, kissing him so hard that you feel his teeth behind his lips and squash your noses between you. “even though i was mean?”

“i deserved it,” he kisses you again and again and again, each longer and more languid than the last; like he’s making up for all the kisses you haven’t shared. “i feel like i should apologize just for breathing the same air as you.”

with a low laugh, you take his face in your hands and guide him back to you, sealing his mouth with yours once more. you remain like that for a while, tasting the remnants of wine like master connoisseurs, relishing the tenderness and the way in which you both release your longing.

until he’s everywhere—overriding every signal, raiding every sense, feeling every inch—hands groping and cupping, teeth nipping. it makes your head swim, and no it absolutely is not the wine. . . but god, does it taste better on his tongue than from a glass.

he strips you of your nightwear with purpose and practiced ease, large hands moving to slide up and down your nude curves. the thought of him doing this with every other girl he meets abroad only lasts until he dips his head to nuzzle and suck at your neck’s incline, lips dragging upward to snag that sensitive spot below your ear. a mewl reverberates from your throat when he tugs at your earlobe, the vibration of it bouncing from your chest to narrow on your spine where it arches your back, urging you flush against him.

your bare chest presses against his shirt-clad one, the designer cotton a welcome sensation to your pert nipples. but you need to feel him. so as your breathing comes faster, your lips meeting frantically every time your mouths are close, you shed his clothing and wrap your arms around his slim waist—holding his naked front to yours.

every muscle-twitch, every hair that stands to attention, every goosebump that arises, every ripple of heat; you feel it all.

“let me see all of you.” you whisper, tilting your chin up to part his lips with yours, tongue snaking to seek its partner. they dance slowly for a while, raw and leisurely, before you break away from the passionate embrace to take a seat on your chaiselongue.

you keep your eyes locked on his the entire time, swaying your hips to the seductive rhythm of your saunter. when you sit, you let your knees fall open, then make a show of lifting one leg a little higher than necessary to drape it over the other.

his gaze remains pinned to your center long enough that you almost forget yourself. with a sharp clearing of your throat, his blues lock respectably onto your face. you quirk a brow and he grins, then drops his hands to the waistband of his boxers.

his fingers hook under it, then they pause. “i’m sorry, my lady, am i going too fast?”

you chuck a cushion at him. “take them off!”

“alright, alright, so impatient!” he chuckles brightly, flashing every tooth. torturously, he slides his boxers down his thighs until they bunch at his knees and drop to puddle around his ankles.

you follow their course, then trail your eyes back up the lengths of his legs. he stands before you in all his naked glory, and god bless you, is he well-hung.

but then he strikes a pose, like one of those roman sculptures. “paint me like one of your french girls?”

you shake your head and crook your finger. “come here.”

his arms fall to his sides and his feet carry him toward you until his legs are either side of yours. with a dainty touch as though his skin is the most fragile porcelain, you skim a finger up each thigh, edging inward. he hisses and snaps his hips, hands flying to grip your shoulders.

“shit.” he lets his head fall back, mouth gaping open when your breath fans over him, before your lips finally purse to a close and your cheeks hollow out.

you moan around him when his fingers bite into your shoulders, holding you between his legs. his naval collides with your forehead, the base of him bumping your nose when he bucks forward, meeting the bobs of your head halfway.

you take it like a champ though, hands scraping up to hold his hips, fingers curling to clutch at his buttocks. he hums appreciatively, one hand slipping around to cup the nape of your neck while the other remains anchored to your shoulder like a vice on steel.

hugging him in your throat, you keep him shrouded there, tightening the twin clamps of your throat and mouth like silk stretched over iron. you alternate between rocking your head back and forth, and kissing and suckling at his tip. precum coats your lips, making them shimmer in the low light like the crudest lipgloss ever.

“my knees are gonna buckle if you keep doing that.” he gives your shoulder a squeeze, then gently pulls you off him. you release him with a pop, lips glazed with a milky concoction of your spit and his arousal.

just as your tongue darts out to lap it up, his thumb rubs over your lower lip, spreading it over your chin slightly, before slipping his thumb into your mouth. you suck it clean, similarly to how you did just moments ago, then pinch it between your teeth. he grins lazily, eyes lidded.

“sounds like i was doing it right, then.” you recline back and bend your legs, hoisting your thighs up to rest against yourself—feet in the air. you spread your arms out and look up at him with a goading, almost daring glint in your eye.

it enraptures him, the sight. with your hair fanned out like a halo, your arms winnowed out like wings. you could be an angel. he’s not about to use the ‘fell from heaven’ pickup line, though. not when he’s got you right where he wants you.

and oh has he imagined this very moment a hundred different times, a hundred different ways—you somehow beneath him, bare and exposed and at his full disposal, his mercy, every single time. just when he thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful. . . you’re prettier like this; staring up at him lustfully like he’s the only man ever.

his gaze wanders south, slow in its journey. he finds you spread open for him and his cock jerks at the sight, now standing even taller and straighter than before. your saliva glistens as it does, its reflective sheen accentuating every ridge and vein—now pulsing.

you’ve got a luster of your own, your folds puffy with aching need. dipping farther still, his eyes find your entrance, puckered and visibly pulsating with anticipation. he twitches again, fingers flexing.

girls don’t come like this in new york. literally and figuratively.

“i don’t know how you do things in manhattan, nathaniel,” and jesus, his name sounds melodic in your voice. “but in paris, we make love.”

he breathes out. hard. “oh, i can go all night.”

positioning himself above you, he slots his thighs against the backs of yours, slotting his knees under your behind. it forces you upward, his cock sliding snugly between your swollen heat when the angle of your body shifts. you gasp, then trap your lip between your teeth, hands slithering up to flatten against his chest. his heart hammers beneath your palm, skin hot.

“what’s your name?” he murmurs, one hand holding your leg in place while the other braces his weight behind you.

you smile. “you really need my name to commemorate? after the week we’ve shared?” and also, he’s practically hanging out of you. this couldn’t wait?

“let me rephrase.” he leans down to growl against your ear, folding you against himself. “give me something to moan.”

shivering slightly at the chill that curls beneath your skin, you turn your head so your mouth grazes his, and utter your name against his lips.

it hangs between you like stars for a second, before his runs his tongue from one corner of your mouth to the other and straightens up again. in one swift motion, his cock pushes into you, stealing the air from your lungs. “thank you.”

the sun has long broken through the horizon when your eyes peel open. wiping the sleep away, you sit up on your elbows and cast your gaze around the room.

some of your trinkets have been knocked over, a few of them having rolled off of your dresser to lie sadly on the floor; your drapes are all askew, one of them hanging on for dear life from the curtain rail; your armchair has somehow ended up on the other side of the room; your rug is wonky and rumpled; the stool to your vanity is on its side; and your floor lamp has fallen over, wedged behind the headboard.

so basically, it looks ransacked. thieves would have left less mess. you groan and slap a hand to your forehead, then flop back onto the mattress, the fitted sheet completely unhooked from the corners. just as your eyes start to flutter, you spot a folded note on the pillow beside yours, rather than the head of the man responsible.

you’d love to say you’re surprised.

with a huff, you pluck the note and open it up.

don’t be a stranger x

another slip of paper sits atop the plush silk and you frown curiously, then unfold that one, too. it’s an open-ended plane ticket. and business class, no less! you suppose his super midsize jet wouldn’t make it over the atlantic.

smiling, you take out your phone.

you: i won’t ;)

The room was silent aside from the sound of the tools working against the metal. You looked back, he was still there, crafting his own machine in the common room for the annual Christmas scientific fair in your outcast college. He looked pathetic, hunched over and passing his hand through his disgustingly messy curls. He turned around and looked right back at you, not even blinking once. You rolled your eyes and turned around to focus back on your own work. Truth was, you did not like Isaac. He was an arrogant piece of shit. You shared a few classes so you two unfortunately had to put up with each other. He just couldn’t handle the fact that you didn’t fawn over his so-called genius, and every time you achieved something, he was quick to shut the compliments down. You were tired of working, and the fact that everything seemed to be going the wrong way for you these last few weeks certainly didn’t help with your bad mood. Your locker’s lock had broke, you lost an assignment you had to give three days go, you tripped over the air when you stepped out of your room, your food fell and splattered all over the cafeteria’s tiles, some of your favorite clothes disappeared from your closet and this asshole Isaac had just fussed over how you played some music while working. You couldn’t wait to get under your blankets. You took a step back, good enough. You put the veil back on your work, time to head to your room and forget about tomorrow. You looked back, he was crouching down without moving a muscle, obviously trying to spy on you without you noticing. You rolled your eyes yet again. 

“Bye.” He didn’t answer.

You ran to the college’s hall. You dressed up with your eyes closed today, you missed the fair’s opening. Obviously, your alarm hadn’t rung. God, you needed this holiday break. You tried to give your appearance one last fix as the professors headed to your stand. You gave them a small smile. 

“Good morning and thank you for your attention. I present to you my work for this fair, the…” You took the veil off, showing to the public a…mini volcano? Your jaw fell open. This wasn’t…what the hell… who the hell…And it wasn’t just a miniature volcano, it was one of those ugly mud ones kids made in elementary school. This was not what you had worked so hard on! You looked back to the professors, who were giving you polite smiles. You finally started talking when you saw them walking to the next stand.

“Wait, this isn’t what I made! I swear!” One of them answered while they kept walking.

“We’ll talk about this later. Thank you for your participation.” 

They stopped in front of Isaac’s stand. Isaac, who had a hand in front of his mouth and wide eyes. He looked at the muddy volcano mess and let out a fake little gasp. He. Did. Not. He did not. Did he? He was now showing off some ridiculous piece of metal. Oh. He did. He. Fucking. Did. He fucking- You grabbed the volcano’s plate and walked straight to him. He was too busy talking about himself to notice, of course, but the only thing you could hear was the Christmas songs playing on the radio that was resting on a table. 

“Isaac!” He turned around, only to get the mud shoved on his face. He screamed and pushed you off, but you grabbed him by the shirt and he fell with you. You got on top of him and grabbed his hair. 

“You piece of shit!” He didn’t answer, just threw some mud on your face. You squealed as it got in your nose, he took it as an opportunity to roll on top, but you weren’t gonna let him win, so the two of you ended up rolling around the room, throwing mud at each other and punching away. People were shouting, but you couldn’t register it. You got off him. 

“You piece of shit! It was you! You ruined my life! I HATE YOU!”

 He huffed. “Why are you so obsessed with me?” You growled and grabbed a table, throwing it straight at him. He fell to the ground and you burst out laughing, that is, until he used his stupid telekinesis to make you trip and drag you over to him. The crowd was screaming but you two were back on top of each other. You grabbed his hair and he panted out. 

“It’s not my fault I’m better than you!”

“If you’re better than why do you have to fucking sabotage me!?” You kicked on a table, knocking off the radio. “You’re gonna pay for this!” You grabbed his shirt and he flicked his wrist, an invisible hand throwing the goddamn leftovers of this stupid volcano back to your face, you threw him against the floor and raised your hand, only to wipe the mud all over his hair. He screamed. Finally, a bunch of people separated the two of you, you were struggling against their grip and he was panting. 

“He did it! He put the fucking volcano on my-”

The room was silent aside from the sound of the tools working against the metal. You looked back, he was still there, crafting his own machine in the common room for the annual Christmas scientific fair in your outcast college. He looked pathetic, hunched over and passing his hand through his disgustingly messy curls. He turned around and looked right back at you, not even blinking once. You rolled your eyes and turned around to focus back on your own work. Truth was, you did not like Isaac. He was an arrogant piece of shit. You shared a few classes so you two unfortunately had to put up with each other. He just couldn’t handle the fact that you didn’t fawn over his so-called genius, and every time you achieved something, he was quick to shut the compliments down. You were tired of working, and the fact that everything seemed to be going the wrong way for you these last few weeks certainly didn’t help with your bad mood. Your locker’s lock had broke, you lost an assignment you had to give three days go, you tripped over the air when you stepped out of your room, your food fell and splattered all over the cafeteria’s tiles, some of your favorite clothes disappeared from your closet and this asshole Isaac had just fussed over how you played some music while working. You couldn’t wait to get under your blankets. You took a step back, good enough. You put the veil back on your work, time to head to your room and forget about tomorrow. You looked back, he was crouching down without moving a muscle, obviously trying to spy on you without you noticing. You rolled your eyes yet again. 

“Bye.” He didn’t answer.

You ran to the college’s hall. You dressed up with your eyes closed today, you missed the fair’s opening. Obviously, your alarm hadn’t rung. God, you needed this holiday break. You tried to give your appearance one last fix as the professors headed to your stand. You gave them a small smile. 

“Good morning and thank you for your attention. I present to you my work for this fair, the…” You took the veil off, showing to the public a…mini volcano? Your jaw fell open. This wasn’t…what the hell… who the hell…And it wasn’t just a miniature volcano, it was one of those ugly mud ones kids made in elementary school. This was not what you had worked so hard on! You looked back to the professors, who were giving you polite smiles. You finally started talking when you saw them walking to the next stand.

“Wait, this isn’t what I made! I swear!” One of them answered while they kept walking.

“We’ll talk about this later. Thank you for your participation.” 

They stopped in front of Isaac’s stand. Isaac, who had a hand in front of his mouth and wide eyes. He looked at the muddy volcano mess and let out a fake little gasp. He. Did. Not. He did not. Did he? He was now showing off some ridiculous piece of metal. Oh. He did. He. Fucking. Did. He fucking- You grabbed the volcano’s plate and walked straight to him. He was too busy talking about himself to notice, of course, but the only thing you could hear was the Christmas songs playing on the radio that was resting on a table. 

“Isaac!” He turned around, only to get the mud shoved on his face. He screamed and pushed you off, but you grabbed him by the shirt and he fell with you. You got on top of him and grabbed his hair. 

“You piece of shit!” He didn’t answer, just threw some mud on your face. You squealed as it got in your nose, he took it as an opportunity to roll on top, but you weren’t gonna let him win, so the two of you ended up rolling around the room, throwing mud at each other and punching away. People were shouting, but you couldn’t register it. You got off him. 

“You piece of shit! It was you! You ruined my life! I HATE YOU!”

 He huffed. “Why are you so obsessed with me?” You growled and grabbed a table, throwing it straight at him. He fell to the ground and you burst out laughing, that is, until he used his stupid telekinesis to make you trip and drag you over to him. The crowd was screaming but you two were back on top of each other. You grabbed his hair and he panted out. 

“It’s not my fault I’m better than you!”

“If you’re better than why do you have to fucking sabotage me!?” You kicked on a table, knocking off the radio. “You’re gonna pay for this!” You grabbed his shirt and he flicked his wrist, an invisible hand throwing the goddamn leftovers of this stupid volcano back to your face, you threw him against the floor and raised your hand, only to wipe the mud all over his hair. He screamed. Finally, a bunch of people separated the two of you, you were struggling against their grip and he was panting. 

“He did it! He put the fucking volcano on my-”