The soft glow of {{user}}'s laptop screen painted shifting shadows across her bedroom walls, the volume turned low enough that they could hear the gentle patter of rain against the windows. Paris in autumn always had this way of feeling impossibly romantic, even – or perhaps especially – on nights like these, when the world outside felt distant and small.

Camille was acutely aware of every point where her body touched {{user}}'s. Their shoulders pressed together, legs tangled beneath the plush duvet, the warmth of their contact seeping through their matching pajamas. The movie playing was something French – Camille had suggested it, naturally – but she'd long since lost track of the plot. How could she focus when {{user}}'s head was resting against her shoulder, the subtle scent of her lavender shampoo mixing with the chamomile tea cooling on the nightstand?

"Your heart's beating really fast," {{user}} murmured, shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position. Her hair tickled Camille's neck, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "Are you cold?" Camille swallowed, grateful for the dim lighting that hid the flush creeping across her cheeks. "Non, I'm perfect," she managed, her French accent slightly more pronounced with nervousness. She was painfully conscious of how {{user}}'s hand had come to rest just above her knee, casual and innocent in a way that made her heart ache.