All Chapters of Kiss me 2.1: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

EleanorOne week. Seven days where his face has become embedded behind my eyelids every time I blink. Worse than a memory, it has become a fever. A guilty heat rising along my arms when I think back to the animal precision of his movements, to that moment when, his shirt open, he had turned his gaze towards the darkness… and I had the absurd feeling that he was looking for me, me, in the shadow of my column. It's senseless. It's beneath everything I've been taught. Mother, if she suspected that my "board meeting" ended up in the Soho underworld, would faint dead away on the Aubusson rug.And yet, here I am. Back. Tonight. More alone than last time, because this time, I know what I'm looking for, and this knowledge makes me terribly vulnerable. The air of the Velvet Temple is heavy with the acrid smell of sweat, cheap alcohol, and overly sweet perfume. I curl up on my chair, the silky fabric of my black dress – a simple cut that cost a waitress's monthly salary – suddenly seeming like

The Seasons of the HeartMain Characters:· Léo, 28, a shy and rational architect who believes in pre-drawn plans. · Éloïse, 26, a passionate and spontaneous violinist who lives by her emotions.Summary:Léo and Éloïse are polar opposites. They meet by chance on a rainy day, taking shelter under the same awning. Their first interaction is a clash of worlds: he, meticulous, offers to share his umbrella following a logical itinerary; she, playful, instead suggests they dance in the downpour.Despite their obvious differences, an irresistible attraction pushes them to see each other again. They explore their city together, him showing her the hidden beauty of structures, her opening the doors to music and the present moment. This is the Meeting & Attraction, a spark shining in the contrast.Then comes the Happy Relationship, an idyllic period where each enriches themselves with the other's universe. Léo becomes more flexible, Éloïse becomes more grounded. Their differences, initially a s

LéoThe ensuing silence isn't awkward. It's charged. Charged with the memory of our bodies spinning in the rain, our joined hands, that suspended moment when our mouths almost met. I watch her furtively. She sips her chocolate, eyes half-closed, a vague smile on her lips. The ecru napkin highlights the olive tone of her skin, the natural pink of her cheeks."Do you do this often? Lure strangers in the rain for impromptu waltzes?"I finally break the silence. She opens her eyes, a mischievous glint in the depths of her green gaze."Only with meticulous architects who look like they've forgotten how to breathe without a plan."I laugh, genuinely, for the second time today. A strange, rusty sound that surprises even me."And does it work? Does it make them breathe?"She leans towards me, her gaze becoming more intense, more intimate."Did you breathe, Léo? Earlier, in the rain?"I feel the air leave my lungs. Under the table, my knees brush against hers. An accidental contact, but one tha

The next day dawns, tinged with a strange light. It's not the sun, too veiled, but a kind of luminous tension in the air, as if Paris itself were holding its breath.ÉloïseWaking up is a shock. Not a gentle transition. The memory of Léo hits me full force, while I'm still sitting in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. The card is there, on the nightstand. I took it out of my jeans pocket, like a trophy or proof. Léo Moreau. Architect.The day ahead is busy: private lessons in the afternoon, ensemble rehearsal in the evening. A reassuring, routine schedule. This morning, it feels like a prison.I pick up my violin. Not to work on a technical passage. I'm searching for something. I let my fingers wander over the strings, searching for that music, the one that brushed our silences in the café. A melody is born, hesitant, an airy line that tries to rise but falls back, heavy with a nameless anticipation. It's unbearable.At 10:07 AM, I grab my phone. I dial his number, the one on th

LéoThe vibration of the piano's last note faded an hour ago, but it continues to resonate in the cage of my bones. My body is a crumpled fresco, a parchment where Éloïse calligraphed our night with charcoal and red. The sensation is not erased. It is embedded. It tingles, as she said. Like a memory that refuses to fade.I remain sitting on the floor, my back against the piano leg, contemplating the studio. The morning light is harsh now, pitiless. It reveals the dust, the fatigue in the corners, the dirty cups. It also reveals the woman standing near the table, bent over her scores, back straight, milky skin streaked with faint pink marks – mine. Her concentration is a palpable object. The world has tilted. The night was an ocean in which we sank. This morning is a new shore, strange, whose sand is made of music paper and soot.I stand up. My muscles protest, as after a long fight. I go to the sink, run cold water. I wash my face, but I don't touch the drawings on my chest. The water