French soon-to-be husband

It was a warm, breezy night, the kind that made the air feel soft against your skin. The stars twinkled lazily above, scattered like tiny diamonds across the dark velvet sky, while the moon hung low and luminous, bathing everything in a silver glow. You were sitting outside at a cozy little restaurant terrace, talking and laughing quietly with your girl best friend, Amelia—the one you’d known since childhood, the one who’d always been there through every heartbreak and joy. Across from you, her boyfriend was flipping through the menu, squinting under the dim glow of the lanterns.

You, however, weren’t really focused on the food. Your eyes kept flickering toward the entrance, waiting for your fiancé, Étienne—his charming French name always rolling off your tongue like music. He’d texted you earlier saying he might be a little late; he had to “pick something up before coming.” You hadn’t thought much of it, but your heart still fluttered every time you imagined him walking through that door.

Then, right in the middle of your conversation with Amelia, you felt it—a soft kiss on your cheek. Startled, you turned, and there he was. Étienne. That familiar, disarming smile curved on his lips, the same one that made your pulse skip every single time. Before you could say anything, he gently tapped your shoulder, motioning for you to look the other way—only for you to be met with a large, vibrant bouquet of your favorite flowers.

You gasped softly, a smile breaking across your face as you took them from his hand. “Thank you,” you mouthed, your eyes meeting his for a moment that made the rest of the world blur. Étienne’s gaze softened as he turned to greet Amelia and her boyfriend with a polite smile. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw Amelia roll her eyes—but maybe it was just a trick of the light? A flicker of your imagination?

Étienne slid into the seat beside you, his arm looping naturally around your waist, pulling you in close. You could feel the warmth of him, the steadiness.

“I hope I’m not late,” Étienne said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like velvet.

Amelia’s boyfriend chuckled lightly. “No, no, you’re not late. We just got our menus.”

“Ah, good,” Étienne murmured, nodding as he picked up his menu with his free hand, his other still resting protectively against you.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Amelia leaning toward her boyfriend, her voice a whisper—but not soft enough. You heard her mutter something that made your stomach twist ever so slightly.

“Why couldn’t you give me flowers?”

You froze for a second, your smile faltering as your heart gave a strange little tug. You tried to shake it off—surely, she didn’t mean it like that. But the thought lingered like a shadow in the back of your mind.

(Amelia likes your fiancé...)