A car waited for us just as Luke promised. We whizzed through the traffic, and I sucked in a deep breath. I scooted toward Luke; he wrapped his arm around me and held me close. I closed my eyes—the ones that were burning and tired from traveling—and almost dozed off. Luke just stared out the window.

"I've missed this place so much." It was like he spoke to me from a faraway place, lost in his memories.

"Oh, sorry. I must have drifted off again."

We sluggishly exited the car, and Luke grabbed my bags.

The building had thick columns and little balconies. Bourbon Street in New Orleans, I swore, had buildings exactly like this. Oh, French, right.

"Do you like it?"

I smiled at him.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The driver handed Luke a set of keys, and we made our way to the front door. A studio apartment was filled with canvases, drawing paper, and a large open space for working. Not to mention, a couch, oversized chair, and a bed in the corner. There were no rooms; the floor plan was open. Well, except for the bathroom.

Luke dropped the bags on the floor and exhaled loudly as he searched around the room. He placed his hands behind his head and stretched.

"Everything I requested is here. I'll have a go at it tomorrow."

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a piece of cheese for himself, and offered me a slice. I grabbed it and sunk my teeth into the creamiest piece of cheddar in the entire world. So creamy, I couldn't help but be vocal. He laughed.

"Hey don't judge me. This is good," I said.

"Totally not judging."

"Let's get some sleep, yeah?"

"Yeah. So exhausted."

I unzipped my suitcase and went to the bathroom to put on my pajama pants and a shirt that said, "Texas has a bigger thing than yours." It was my favorite, and it was funny, at least I thought so. While I changed, Luke did as well. He wore a plain white shirt and pajama bottoms that hung loosely on his hips. He yawned, ran his fingers through his curly hair then laughed.

"I already said to not judge."

"I'm not. I swear to it."

We stood beside one another as we figured out the sleeping arrangements.

"I'll sleep on the couch," I said.

"No. I will."

"Paper, rock, scissors for it?"

Luke shook his head.

"Alright, flip a coin?"

He shook his head again.

"I'm not winning this argument, am I?"

Then he gave me a nod and a smile. I released a begrudging sigh and crawled under the covers. Luke searched the flat for an extra blanket and grabbed the pillow from the other side of the bed. There was only a thin sheet, but he didn't complain and plopped on the couch.

I lay on my side and had no clue what time it was, but it seemed either late or early. I was thrown off of my schedule and hoped it would fix itself soon because I wanted to enjoy France.

Before I dozed off, I thought of Luke sleeping on that couch, and heard the springs as he twisted on the couch.

"Luke."

No answer.

"Luketon," I whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Come on. Come to bed. It's silly. You need a good night’s rest, and I won't take no for an answer."

Silence.

When I rolled over to look at him, he stood beside the bed with his pillow.

"I know there is no arguing with you. You're as bad as Finn."

He plopped the pillow down on the bed and slid under the blankets. I rolled over with my back toward him with a huge smile on my face.

"Goodnight," I said.

"Night."

We both drifted off to the sound of each other’s breathing in the room. I needed to sleep until my body told me it was time to wake.

Completely refreshed, I felt revived when I woke to an empty bed. After looking around, I saw Luke at the little table in front of the balcony sipping coffee with a sketchpad and pencil. He was so involved in his work that I didn't want to interrupt him. Instead, I stumbled to the bathroom with a toothbrush in one hand and clothes in the other. My mouth tasted like I had eaten a cup of nastiness in my sleep. I blamed the cheese.

I pulled my frizzy mess of hair back into a tight bun that would have made any ballerina jealous. I stalked to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, wished for creamer, and sat at the table in front of Luke.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

He laughed. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon. I thought you’d never get up but couldn't find it in my heart to wake you. Seriously, you snore like a princess."

"I do not snore."

"Oh, you do. It's cute, though. Not like a chainsaw."

"Oh, shut it."

I sipped my coffee and hunger set in.

"I got you some croissants. I mean, they aren't bacon donuts, but I thought you would appreciate them."

I reminisced about Texas and that time Luke and I shared. It really was magical in its own way. I learned more about Luketon during that trip than during our time together in Vegas.

He slid a plate of chocolate dipped croissants my way, and my mouth instantly watered.

"I have an appointment at five with my client, then I'm free. Anything you'd like to do?"

"Show me the city the way you wanted me to see it before. That's what I want."

We sipped our coffee in synchronicity as he spoke over the rim of his cup.

"I'm not sure you can handle it, Miss Downs."

"That's not the first time I've been told that."

And truth be known, it wasn't.

The air smelled different, but the way the city spoke to me wasn't the same as the French Quarter. I couldn't quite place it. France streamed a constant hum of old electricity under the streets.

"Have you ever been to New Orleans?" I asked Luke, as I tucked my hands into my pockets and caught up to him.

"No. I haven't. But let me guess… it looks just like this?"

"Uh, yeah. Like, exactly. I can't get over it."

"That's what everyone says. Maybe we can visit one day? I'd love to eat the Cajun food."

"God, yes. Gumbo, etouffee, pistolettes." My mouth watered just thinking about it.

We continued down the street and passed a small bakery. Inside, a man kneaded dough then threw it in the air. A few more blocks and we entered an ancient looking office building. There were large paintings covering the walls, photographs, and sculptures made from steal pipes. It was like the building had dropped from outer art space.

I stood beside Luke. A petite woman with dark hair greeted us, and he responded to her. I opened my mouth to speak, but stopped when I realized that Luke was speaking French, the language of love. Holy shit.

The woman urged us to follow her, and Luke bent down and whispered in my ear, "She wants to take us on a tour."

"You never told me you spoke French," I whispered back.

"There are lots of things I don't say," he said, and grabbed my hand to lead me up the stairs.

Paintings of Paris filled the upper floor. Tons of them, of different sizes and shapes, all renditions of the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral, and many other amazing attractions that people traveled from all over the world to see. I was really in Paris, and I listened to Luke speak the language of love so elegantly. The French words rolled off his tongue. He could have whispered anything in my ear, and I would have melted into his palm. Not only was I a sucker for accents; I was a lover of language.