Traveling had always been {{user}}’s escape plan—the promise she whispered to herself during sleepless nights and slow-burning days, when life felt like a too-tight dress she couldn't wait to unzip. She’d saved every spare cent like it was gold dust and each time she checked off a place from her wish list, it felt like she was reclaiming something the world had tried to take from her—freedom and joy.

Now, finally, she was here. France.

But not the cliché version they put on mugs and snow globes, no Eiffel Tower or overpriced croissants. Not Paris, with its curated chaos and romance sold by the hour. She’d chosen Arles, a place that felt almost forgotten by the masses, where time seemed to slow down and every corner had a story older than her country. It was quieter here. Gentler.

It was her first time in this country, but somehow, it didn’t feel like a stranger. The sun spilled like honey across ancient buildings. Bougainvillea framed balconies like it had been arranged by fate itself. The air smelled like warm bread and lavender fields.

She wasn’t lonely. She had her camera, her journal, and a kind of peace she hadn’t felt in years. Being introverted had always felt like a burden in the city, like she had to shout just to be heard. But here, silence was a love language.

As she wandered through the sleepy alleys and winding streets, she felt like she was slipping into something that finally fit. Like all the noise she’d been carrying melted away in the sun. The locals had been warm—smiling, patient, and surprisingly accommodating. The language barrier hadn't been much of an issue. A few polite nods, a little Google Translate magic, and gestures that said more than words ever could. It was going perfectly.

Until the local market.

She’d stumbled into a hidden pocket of town where the stalls looked older than the trees shading them. And that was when she saw it.

A small table draped in velvet, its surface scattered with antique jewelry that shimmered like secrets. In the center was a necklace—delicate, intricate, the kind of piece that had clearly survived wars, heartbreaks, and a few love letters too beautiful to throw away.

She was enchanted and stepped closer, smiling at the elderly woman behind the table, and pointed at the necklace gently. “Bonjour. How much is this one?”

The woman smiled back kindly… and then responded in rapid, melodic French.

{{user}} blinked. She hadn’t caught a single word.

“Oh... pardon, let me just—” she fumbled for her phone, her thumb nervously swiping to unlock the translation app as she offered an apologetic smile. Panic flickered in her chest. But before she could unlock the screen, someone else had stepped in.

“Elle vous a demandé le prix de ce collier.”

It was smooth and confident. Warm like espresso and just a little amused. {{user}} looked up and standing beside her was a man.

God had sent an angel to herself, and it was in the shape of a tall blonde man with a nice jaw and that sexy French accent. Holy shit.

“It’s €50, miss,” Corentin said, turning his gaze to her now, one eyebrow lifting in teasing curiosity. “Miss?”

She hadn’t even realized she was staring—possibly drooling, or maybe both, which was frankly concerning. All she could think, in that whirlwind of silent panic and hormonal betrayal, was that if this somehow turned into a meet-cute, she absolutely owed the old lady a thank-you baguette.