Foto bij 608 - Emma

The restaurant we have dinner at looks like it comes straight from a movie. There's music playing, even on the outside terrace that has a perfect view out onto the beach, where people are having their nightly walks.
Even better than that view, though, is the one I have of Lucien. Just like I told him earlier today, when the sight of him brought me to tears, there's a certain kind of calm that seems to have washed over him. His sleeves are rolled up a little, far enough to seem casual but not too far to be considered out of place in an establishment like this, and it showcases his already slightly tanned arms.
The man can really walk outside in cloudy Edinburgh and still get more tan than I do in the entirety of summer.
We're still reading the menu, my brain working hard to translate certain French words because I was too stubborn to ask for an English one.
Most of it is seafood, which isn't quite the branch of vocabulary I am fluent in, but I still try my best.
"Do you know what you want?" he smiles at me, taking a sip from his wine - a bottle of which the price indeed comes down to what we would usually spend on groceries in a calm week.
"I...," my eyes are still lingering on the term poulpe de roche, my brain not finding a simple explanation as what that could be. "Think so?"
He chuckles. "You could just admit your French isn't what it used to be, Em."
Careful not to let anyone else see, I kick his calf under the table. "My French is perfectly adequate, thank you very much. I'm just not fluent when it comes to fish."
"How about..." he smiles. "I order for you? I'd like to think I know what you like, and if I'm wrong, you can have mine."
"Fine," I put the menu down and fold it shut, taking my own glass of wine in my hands, swirling it around.
      Turns out, poulpe de roche means rock octopus. I find that out when our appetizers come, and it's what the friendly lady puts in front of Lucien. The dish he has ordered for me turns out to be tuna, which I already assumed from when he ordered it in fast, melodic French.
For a restaurant so close to the sea, it shouldn't surprise me how amazing their seafood is, but with the first bite I almost have to stifle a moan.
"Like it?" he smirks, putting a fork with a mixture of his own vegetables up to his mouth.
"So good," I nod when I finish chewing and swallow the bite. I eye his salad with bits of octopus mixed in, and with a smile on his face he lifts the next forkload up.
"Would you like to try some?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I tease, leaning in closer so like in true romantic movie fashion, he can feed me some of his salad. I watch him flick a piece of tomato off of his fork for me before I taste the bite. "Oh," I put my hand in front of my mouth, chewing on the mixture of ingredients until I swallow them. "That's amazing."
"Oh no," he pretends so sigh. "Does this mean you want to trade now?"
"Oh, no, I'm equally as happy with my food," I shake my head, turning back to my own dish. "Want to try some of mine?"
He shrugs. "Sure, why not?" He nods in approval when he tastes it, smiling. "Thank you, love. That's lovely."
We both notice it, and I notice his face change immediately when we do, getting ready to apologize.
It feels strange, hearing it again after having asked him not to say it anymore, but that was then. That was at home, when I still blamed myself, when I felt like I didn't deserve the word.
"Sorry, I..."
"That's okay," I assure him, smiling at him before taking a sip of my wine. "I quite liked it, actually."
      Our mains are prawns for me and a squid ink pasta with seafood for Lucien, of which I manage to taste at least five bites as well, trading said bites for some of mine.
"Do you think I'll be able to swim better?" I joke, scraping the last bit of quinoa off of my plate.
"Do I think you... what?" he looks at me in confusion, as if I've just mushed a bunch of words together to form a sentence that makes no sense.
"It was one of Louis' jokes," I smile. "When we went on holiday to anywhere near the beach and dad had us all eat fish for pretty much every meal, every day. He'd ask... 'now that I've eaten all of this fish, do you think I'll be able to swim better, now that I'm technically partially fish?' He used that one for years."
Lucien chuckles, shaking his head. "That's..."
One of the servers interrupts whatever it is he's about to say. "Would you like another drink?" Their French sounds different from Lucien's, the accent a little thicker and less melodic than when he speaks French. Maybe that's just because I'm in love with him.
When I talked to mum about him, she asked me an important question when I was on the brink of another meltdown. Do you just love him, or are you still in love with him?
I wasn't sure of the difference, but she explained it to me. She told me that in many relationships, people do love one another, but the spark is gone. They don't get the butterflies anymore, they're no longer excited to see each other. The excitement wears off.
I realised, in that moment, that I don't just love him, but that I still very much am in love with him. It's not like every time he looks at me I feel butterflies racing through my body, or like I get nervous when he talks to me, but he still makes my heart race with certain glances, and I still get giggly when he compliments me. He's still the hottest man in the world to me. Not just when he speaks French, like he does right now, but it sure does help to bring the initial butterflies back.
He notices my stare, lost in thought, and I catch a smile creep on to his face.
"What?" he laughs.
"Nothing," I feel myself blush. "You're just hot, and I love you. Did you order dessert?"

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