Paris woke up loud.
Or maybe it only seemed that way to Amara, who had barely slept. The city's morning orchestra began at six: the rumble of delivery trucks, the argument of pigeons on window ledges, the distant ring of a tram. By seven, the hotel was alive with clattering breakfast carts and the shrill beeping of an elevator that never waited for anyone.
Amara watched the sunrise through a slit in the curtains, hair tousled, Elara's arm flung across her waist like a sleepy lifeline. There was a half-finished macaron on the nightstand, lipstick on the rim of a wineglass, and a single red rose petal stuck to Amara's cheek.
She peeled it off with a smirk. "Romantic, but slightly sticky," she muttered.
Elara groaned, rolling onto her back and squinting. "Don't talk to me before coffee. Or noon."
Amara grinned, brushing tangled hair from Elara's forehead. "You know, you're very demanding for someone who steals all the covers."
