He is a Francophile. Everything about her drives him into a frenzy- the light, sweet scent of her expensive French perfume, the daring cut of her skirt, flirting with her knee, and the classic red lipstick that draws his eyes to the song of soft, sweet lips. Even her eyes are lovely, a clear pure blue, like the Black Sea in summer. It's not that he's in love with her—it's just that whenever he looks in her direction, his overwhelming attraction to everything she stands for pulls him in.
Her body speaks all of the French he needs— skin that whispers 'embrasse-moi', eyes that call 'viens ici', fingertips that murmur 'il était une fois' and the curve of her hips hint at things he doesn't dare interpret. She embodies the things he loves about France. In the gloss of her hair, he can see the Seine, in the whisper of her breath, fresh pastries bought on the Champs-Élysées, and in her smile, a certain il ne sait quoi that imprints her in his mind.
"Juliette." He whispers her name into the darkness. Her slim form rests against his side, eyes shut gently. He listens for a moment to the sound of her breath, singing from her lips in shallow sleep. She doesn't move or react, but he prods once against her bubble of peace. "Juliette." His voice is more urgent and she stirs and mumbles sleepily, not wanting to respond. To him, it is a sweet sound of surrender. It hitches his breath, but he manages to say her name a third time. She responds.
"Quoi? Je suis sommeil…" This is what he wants—French words on French lips. It sends an envoy of shivers down his back.
"The movie is finished. It's time for me to leave." His voice is steady. Barely.
"Non… ne laisse pas. Reste ici." She shifts closer, her arms slipping around his to secure herself and the warmth he emits. The French melts off of her tongue like chocolate in the heart of a Romanian summer. Though French and Romanian are both romance languages, he feels- just for a moment- that when she speaks, there is a whole difference form of romance that he cannot quite grasp. Though usually he prods and pokes until she wakes up and relents, oddly this time he feels himself surrender. He allows her to continue resting beside him. She shifts closer in her sleep and her head lies on her chest. The drumming noise's rushed tempo shows that there is unmistakable proof now: this woman cradled against him in sleep is a electric shock— and he can feel his heart racing in response. Eventually, he falls asleep to the lullaby of silence, warmth, and the sensation of her soft French silhouette resting lazily.
When he awakens, light betrays his eyes, setting them alight through the blinds. She is there, stretching like a cat with a lovely, disheveled air about her. Her blue eyes fall on him and he feels oddly mortified.
"Merci pour rester avec moi, mais…" She yawns mildly. He wonders if his mind is being purposely deceptive, or if her voice truly is softer, sweeter. "Dis 'tais-toi' à ton cœur pour moi." She gives him a curious side-glance. "C'était très forte dans mes oreilles."