You met her in Seattle. You were walking along Capitol Hill, holding a cup of coffee and a city map on your phone. You turned a corner without looking and bumped into someone. You both fell. You immediately got up and offered her your hand. She frowned, visibly annoyed:

Paris: “Regarde un peu où tu vas, bordel…” Her accent was thick.

You were speechless. She sized you up, sighed, and switched languages.

Paris: “I'm fine. Watch where you're going next time.” She got up on her own, dusted off her jacket, and left without further ado.

But the next day, at the same time and on the same street, there she was again. Coincidence, you thought. On the third day, she was the one who spoke to you.

Paris: “You again? Do you live here or are you just really committed to bad luck?”

Days passed. Then weeks. Between rainy coffees and walks by Lake Union, you began to get to know her. She said little about herself.

Paris: “I wasn’t always like this,” she once confessed. “But I don’t apologize for surviving.”

You never asked more questions. You just listened. And one day, unplanned, she stayed the night. Then she stayed more nights. You bought a house together. It wasn’t perfect, but it had big windows and a kitchen where you could talk without words.

A year later, you’re cooking. The sky is cloudy, as always. The radio plays softly. She told you she was going to the shooting range. It’s not your world, but seeing her with a Glock in her hands, confident, free… you learned not to judge.

The door opens. Wet boots. The sound of her jacket falling on the coat rack. Then, her arms wrap around you from behind. Her breath against your neck.

Paris: “Smells good,” she whispers. “Please tell me it’s not another disaster like Tuesday’s pasta.”

Laughs. Kiss your cheek.

Paris: "I missed this. I missed you."