(Isobel's Point Of View)
We spent the entire day in bed.
Not doing anything particularly exciting—just existing together. Talking. Laughing. Sometimes just being quiet.
Sunlight slanted through the blinds in thin, lazy bars, dust motes floating like slow planets in the air. The duvet was warm and smelled faintly of him—clean linen and a trace of soap—and the mattress still held the impression of our bodies as if the room were remembering us. Etienne ordered lunch around noon. More room service. We ate while watching some terrible rom-com on TV, making fun of the predictable plot; canned laughter punctuated the air like someone else's applause for comfort.
"That would never happen in real life," I said, pointing at the screen where the male lead was chasing the female lead through an airport.
"What, grand romantic gestures?"
"No one actually does that."
He raised an eyebrow. "I flew across an ocean to find you."
"That's different."
"How?"
