Midnight in Paris

The elevator rose slow and silent, carrying her higher into the night until Paris unfolded like a dream beneath her. Becca stepped out onto the platform, her heels clicking against metal as the wind tangled through her hair. The city shimmered far below, streets like veins of light pulsing with life, and she felt it too, that rhythm deep inside her.

Her dress clung to her like midnight itself, long and black, whispering against her skin with every breath. She moved to the edge of the tower, the breeze cool against her flushed cheeks. Below, the world seemed unreal, soft and glowing. Up here, everything slowed. The sounds of laughter and music drifted faintly upward, mingling with the hum of the lights. When she leaned forward a little, she could almost feel the city exhale beneath her.

He had followed her up. She sensed him before she saw him, a stillness in the air that felt charged. When she turned, he stood a few steps back, half in shadow, his gaze tracing the curve of her dress, the shimmer of her bare shoulder beneath the tower lights. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The moment stretched, fragile and hot, as if Paris itself were holding its breath.

“Beautiful view,” he said finally, though his eyes never left her.

Becca smiled, slow and knowing, tilting her head just enough to let her earrings catch the light. “It is,” she breathed, “but it’s even better when you’re not looking down.”

The wind picked up again, and for a moment the city disappeared. It was only the two of them, suspended in gold and shadow. Somewhere below, a violinist began to play, the notes climbing through the air like a promise. She turned back to the glittering expanse of Paris, her pulse steady and wild all at once, wondering which would give first, the night or her restraint.