CHAPTER 112: BONJOUR, MA BELLE PARIS!

Craig wasn’t in a hurry to answer her question, because he could see the look in her eyes, the tremble just beneath her voice.

And God, he hated that she even had to ask.

Hated that somewhere along the way, the past few days had taught her to doubt things. That her instinct was to pull away before the blow ever came, like she’d rather bruise herself than wait for someone else to do it.

So he didn’t rush.

Not because he didn’t know the answer. But because she deserved better than an automatic one. She deserved the truth, exactly as it lived inside him.

He drew in a breath. Not sharp. Not shaking. Just steady, as if he needed the air to hold himself up.

"It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt." He said quietly, his voice didn’t crack, but it sank, like it came from somewhere he didn’t show people.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, in fear that if she looked at him, she wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

"I’ve chased things I thought mattered. Fought for what I thought was real. But nothing’s ever fought back the way this does. You challenge every part of me." Craig continued, "Every instinct said turn away. But you were the only thing that ever made my heart remember what it meant to truly live."

He looked at her then, like someone reaching out without touching. Because even if he wasn’t saying anything, his eyes held everything else, everything he hadn’t known how to say until now.

"When I’m with you, I feel like... like I’m not lying to myself anymore. Like the noise stops. Even when we’re fighting or falling apart, you’re the only thing that makes sense."

Merlina’s chest tightened, her breath stalling just long enough to sting.

He gave a soft, almost broken laugh, like he couldn’t believe how exposed he was letting himself be.

"I wish I could play it cool. I’d love to sit here and act like I’ve got it all together and say this would be easy. But it’s not easy. It’s fucking terrifying."

His voice dropped lower, like he didn’t trust it to carry.

He paused, and this time, he didn’t look away.

"Because feeling this way, about you, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt." The words hit like gravity. Merlina’s throat tightened.

He leaned forward, unmoving except for the slow clench of his jaw. His hands hung between his knees, fingers tightening into fists, then slowly releasing, as if trying to breathe through the ache.

"It’s the worst thing because it’s real. Because if I lose it, I don’t know what the hell I’m walking back to. I don’t wanna go back to what life looks like without this."

She felt the sting behind her eyes and blinked fast, refusing to let it fall. She turned away, but not fast enough. He saw it anyway.

"I could’ve let it be a moment," he said quietly. "When you walked away in Spain. When you left my bed without saying goodbye. I could’ve taken the hint."

His thumb moved across her knuckles, soft as a whisper, the kind of touch that knew it wanted more but chose to wait.

"But I didn’t. Because even then, I knew." He paused, eyes steady and full of something so raw it almost hurt to meet. "I don’t want you as a memory, Merlina. I want you as mine."

The words pressed against her like a hand to her heart, gentle, firm, and impossible to ignore.

And then she moved.

She pulled her hand from his, not because she didn’t want him, but because it was too much. Her heart was pounding, chest too tight, like she couldn’t breathe without it hurting.

She instantly stood, and took a step away.

Her back to him. Shoulders trembling, she wanted to pull herself together but he had too much effect on her.

She didn’t want him to see her like this, so full of feeling it was spilling out. She didn’t want him to see the tears building in her eyes, or the hope rising in her chest like a wave too big to fight.

It was everything she wanted...and everything she feared.

And he saw it, all of it, and he followed her, quietly, closely, his presence a steady heat at her back she could feel even without turning.

"Merlina," he said, his voice tight with restraint, like he was barely holding himself back from reaching for her.

She turned just slightly, enough to speak, to try to say something, anything. "Craig, I—"

But the rest never came.

Because he stepped forward, closing the space between them, his hands found her face like he needed to touch her to believe she was real, and then he kissed her like the world was ending and starting all at once.

It wasn’t soft, it was desperate and deep and honest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, like she never wanted to let go again.

His fingers slid into her hair, his lips moving against hers with a need that stole the air from her lungs. And she kissed him back with everything she had—messy, teary, breathless.

Because this was real, and they could no longer deny it.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together.

They didn’t need words.

Because their bodies already knew what came next.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt, and then they were moving, without speaking, without asking, like gravity had taken over and there was only one place left to go.

The bedroom was dim, the sheets still warm from earlier sun. But nothing felt warmer than him. His hands. His mouth. His weight against her.

They undressed in silence, stealing kisses in between. Her dress. His shirt. The soft slide of jeans and skin and breathless gasps. He kissed every inch of her like he wanted to leave his mark. Her collarbone, the slope of her breast, her stomach, her hips.

She arched into him with a soft moan when his lips moved lower, and he smiled against her skin like he’d been waiting forever to hear that sound again. Then he was between her thighs, his name falling from her lips in a broken whisper.

And when he entered her, slow and deep, they both exhaled like the world had finally stopped spinning.

He moved with care at first, every thrust deliberate, every stroke meant to feel. To savor.

Their fingers laced. Mouths met. Kisses landed wherever there was space. And as the rhythm deepened, so did everything else.

He groaned against her neck when she tightened around him, and she cried out his name when she shattered beneath him the first time.

And he didn’t stop.

He kissed her all over her face, whispered her name like a vow. Made her fall apart again and again, until all she could do was cling to him like he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.

And maybe he was.

When it was over, they stayed wrapped in each other, bare and tangled under the covers. Her head against his chest. His arm locked around her waist. Their legs a mess of warmth and skin.

No more hiding. No more fear.

Just the sound of their breathing, slowly settling.

And the quiet, aching truth of what they had finally let themselves feel.

The next morning, the Sunlight spilled through the window like it knew what they had done.

Merlina stirred first, her bare skin tangled in warm sheets, her limbs even warmer tangled with his. Craig lay on his side, one arm still draped over her waist, his breath steady against her shoulder.

She didn’t move, not for a while. She just listened. To the silence. To the comfort. To the strange, beautiful calm in her chest.

It was real.

Everything.

Last night.

Him.

Her heart.

When she finally turned to look at him, Craig was already awake, watching her like he couldn’t believe she was still there.

"Hi," she whispered.

His smile was lazy and wrecked and so devastatingly soft. "Hi."

He kissed her shoulder. Then her jaw. Then her mouth, slow and sleepy and sweet.

Later, after they showered and dressed and couldn’t stop smiling at each other for longer than two seconds, they stepped out into the day.

Paris in the morning felt like a movie.

She clung to his hand as they wandered brick lined paths and hidden alleys, stopping at a quiet bookstore, a flower stand, and a bridge that overlooked the Seine.

Merlina laughed when pigeons almost stole her croissant, and Craig pulled her away from traffic like keeping her safe was second nature.

By early evening, they dined in a sleek restaurant tucked behind a gallery in Le Marais, the air thick with jazz and jasmine.

White tablecloths. Tall glasses. A candle flickering between them.

When the waiter came over, Merlina stared down at the French menu, utterly lost. "Can you order for me? If I try to pronounce anything on this page, I might get deported."

Craig laughed, tilting the menu away from her gently. "Let me take care of it."

He glanced down at the menu, scanning it with calm precision, then he looked up at the waiter and spoke with smooth, effortless French.

"Nous prendrons le foie gras de canard avec figues rôties, suivi du filet de bœuf Rossini. Et une bouteille de champagne, s’il vous plaît, Dom Pérignon si vous l’avez."

(We’ll start with duck foie gras and roasted figs, followed by beef filet Rossini. And a bottle of champagne, please, Dom Pérignon, if you have it.)

Merlina blinked. "Is it bad I only recognized the word ’champagne’?"

Craig’s mouth curved into a crooked grin, his voice low and warm. "That’s the only word that matters."

Merlina tried to focus, but there was something about the way he spoke French that made her want to drag him out of the restaurant, press him against the nearest wall, and taste every word off his lips.

She folded her hands in her lap instead, pretending to be composed.

"Et pour le dessert, le fondant au chocolat avec glace à la vanille de Madagascar," he added smoothly.

(And for dessert, molten chocolate cake with Madagascar vanilla ice cream.)

"Okay," she said when the waiter left, "that was... unfairly hot."

He gave a quiet laugh, sipping his wine, eyes never leaving hers. "I aim to impress."

"You did," she said, still a little dazed. "How many languages do you speak?"

Craig tilted his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Three and a half," he said. "But I only flirt in one."

Her lips parted in amusement. "Oh?" she asked, eyes catching his. "Which one?"

"This one," he murmured, voice lower now. "The one where I ask if you’ll be my girlfriend."