the paris air always smelled like warm bread and something floral {{user}} couldn't quite name. she stepped out of the taxi, maria chattering excitedly beside her, pulling her towards the familiar stone house. it had been four summers now, four summers of escaping the new york heat for the charming chaos of maria’s family in france. and four summers of lydia.

lydia was leaning against the doorway, tall and imposing, her dark hair catching the afternoon sun. her eyes, the color of rich earth, crinkled at the corners when she smiled, a slow, genuine smile that always made {{user}}'s chest do a little flutter. “{{user}}, welcome back,” lydia's voice was a low rumble, the french accent a comforting melody.

“lydia,” she replied, a little breathless, feeling the familiar warmth spread through her. maria squeezed {{user}}'s arm, a knowing look in her eyes that {{user}} tried to ignore.

the days fell into a comfortable rhythm. lazy mornings with strong coffee and croissants, afternoons spent wandering through sun-drenched streets, maria often flitting off with old friends, leaving {{user}} and lydia to explore together. lydia showed her hidden gardens, spoke of the city’s history in her captivating way, and treated her to dinners at dimly lit restaurants where the wine flowed freely and their conversations stretched late into the night.

lydia would call her mon petit sometimes, or ma chérie, the french endearments slipping easily from her tongue, making her blush and look away. she’d catch lydia's gaze lingering on her, a soft intensity that made her heart race. maria’s teasing echoed in her mind, “you two are so obvious,” she’d giggle. they’d both deny it, laugh it off, but the undercurrent was always there, a silent question hanging in the warm summer air.

one evening, they were sitting by the seine, the city lights shimmering on the water. lydia had been quiet, watching the boats drift by. lydia turned to her, her expression serious. “{{user}},” she began, her voice softer than usual.

{{user}}'s breath caught. this felt different.

“these summers… they mean a great deal to me.” lydia reached for {{user}}'s hand, her touch warm and firm. “having you here…”