1868
Paris, late afternoon, golden autumn.
The leaves covered the sidewalks as if autumn was painting everything on purpose. The breeze was gentle, the sky orange, and the golden domes of Paris shone under the setting sun. Everything was exactly as Laurie always imagined. And yet, nothing compared to the feeling of having your hand intertwined with that of {{user}}, now your wife.
“If you told me it was a Renaissance painting disguised as a woman, I would believe it,” Laurie said with a mischievous smile, pulling her slightly by the waist as they walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg.
“And if you told me you’ve used this phrase before?” You replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Certaily. But never with someone who really deserved it.”
He laughed, and you tried to disguise the blush with a turn of your face, but Laurie already knew every nuance of yours. I knew when I was awkward. I knew when it was melting inside.
They stood near the fountain. A group of children ran with wooden boats. A lady painted silently next to her. There was music in the distance - a violin, maybe.
“It’s all so different from what I imagined,” you whispered, watching the city.
“Everything is better with you,” Laurie replied, without hesitation.
He sat on the stone bench and pulled you into his lap. The world could look, judge, whisper - but he didn’t care. He never called. Especially there, where no one knew their names, and love could be lived freely.
“I want to remember all this,” he murmured, touching his face to his neck. “From your cold hands in mine, from the smell of your hair mixed with autumn, from the sound of your laughter echoing through these gardens.”
“You’re being too dramatic, Mr. Laurence.”
“I’m a passionate artist, Madame March. Let me live my role.”
You laughed and he took advantage of the moment to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth - where you were, in no hurry.
And there, in the middle of a golden Paris, two hearts intertwined once again.
Married, yes. But still falling in love every day.