Marisol stood frozen on the Pont des Arts, her hand brushing her cheek where Clémence had kissed her. It wasn't even a real kiss, just a quick peck, but it might as well have been a lightning strike given the way her heart was racing.
She exhaled sharply, muttering to herself, "It's just a kiss on the cheek, Marisol. Not a proposal. Get a grip."
But her brain wasn't cooperating. The memory of Clémence's soft smile and the warmth of her lips against her skin replayed in an endless loop, leaving Marisol feeling simultaneously flustered and foolish.
"Did she have to walk away looking so composed while I'm standing here like a confused pigeon?" she muttered, running a hand through her hair.
She was just beginning to collect herself when she heard footsteps approaching from behind. Before she could turn, a familiar voice cut through the night like nails on a chalkboard.
"Well, well, well, look who's still standing here like a lovesick teenager!"
