The streets of Paris were quiet as Marisol strolled back to her hotel, the cool night air a gentle balm against her flushed cheeks. Her steps were unhurried, each one still carrying the lingering warmth of her evening with Clémence. As she reached the ornate entrance of the hotel, she let out a long, contented sigh. Tonight had been... perfect.
The elevator ride to her floor was accompanied by her reflection in the mirrored walls. She was smiling, an almost foolish grin that she didn't bother to suppress. Her mind swirled with memories of Clémence's laughter, her touch, her words. It felt surreal, like stepping into a dream that she didn't want to wake up from.
When she reached her room, she was surprised to find the lights on. The faint sound of a television played in the background, along with the unmistakable sound of someone pacing. Marisol didn't need to guess who it was.