The apartment is quiet after the noise of the gallery, that particular Paris quiet where the city is still audible through the glass but softened, distant, like it's giving you privacy. Vincent turns the lamp on low in the living room and I kick my heels off at the door and stand there in my silk dress and my bare feet on the cold floor and feel the evening sitting on me like a coat I haven't taken off yet.
Vincent loosens his tie and looks at me across the room. "Come here," he says quietly.
I go.
He pulls me in with both hands at my waist, and I rest my forehead against his jaw and just breathe for a second. His hand moves up my back slowly, not pushing anything, just present. He smells like the same cologne he always wears, something warm and dry, cedar and something else I've never
