I woke up this morning in a daze, with hues of salmon and lavender painting the Parisian horizon into a breathtakingly cool, picturesque postcard. La Tour Eiffel shined like a beacon outside my window despite the city coming to life. I felt like I was looking directly into a postcard because if you took a snapshot of this morning's sky, I swear you could put it on a 3.5" x 5" piece of laminated cardboard with the words "Bienvenue à Paris!" (Welcome to Paris!) on it in fancy, cursive letters and sell it at a kiosque on the streets. There just aren't enough words in the dictionary to describe the wonders of how perfect it looked!

I walked to Menardin expecting to see Stephanie there, but it was just sweet, old Amélie this morning. I was disheartened with Stephanie's absence because I'm so used to seeing her at the little boulangerie-pâtisserie each morning. I expected to see her arrange loaves of baguette or some other type of pain in an aesthetically pleasing fashion whist my nostrils filled with the scent of fresh out of the oven goodies, but I didn't see that this morning. Instead, all I saw was Amélie behind the counter giving me the infamous Clifford smile and hammer on about how Stephanie couldn't be in today. My immediate thought was she's sick, which would mean I won't co-babysit with her today, but Amélie assured me she only had the day off.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. I remember walking out of Menardin with the usual pains Michael has me buy each morning and walking back to our flat seeming unreasonably nervous. Everything was the same as every other morning, but it didn't seem like a typical Parisian morning for me. The walk back to our flat seemed longer. Iin my head, everything seemed painfully slower and longer solely because I hadn't seen Stephanie at Menardin. It's silly, but a morning without seeing Stephanie's face is like the moon suddenly halting its orbit around Earth. It just doesn't seem possible.

Here I am right now, sitting across the table from Michael as he douses a slice of pain with peach preserves, still in that head space. I had a very productive writing session last night, in my opinion. Why do I feel so empty this morning? I should feel better after that conversation and spending nearly the entire day with Stephanie today. But I don't feel like that. I feel like complete shit for no logical reason whatsoever.

Michael's staring at me. No, he's peering at me with those captivating emerald irises of his as I slowly sip on my now lukewarm coffee. I think he knows that something's eating me right now. I just hope he doesn't call me out for it if I tell him that it's because I didn't see Stephanie at Menardin.

"Se passé?" he asks in concerned tones, eyes keenly locked onto my face. "Quel est le problème?" (What's up? What's wrong?)

"C'est rien," I simply respond before munching on my slice of bread. "Je suis fatigué. C'est tout."(It's nothing. I'm tired. That's all.)

Michael rolls his eyes and scoffs, whipping open Le Monde as if to mock me by pretending to read the paper. "C'est jamais rien, Ashton. Chaque fois, c'est un petit mensonge." (It's never nothing, Ashton. Each time, it's a small lie.)

I'm not going to let him bother me. I'm just going to finish my breakfast and hope Steph texts me the address of Thierry's house so I don't seem like an idiot for keeping my hopes up. I probably am an idiot for doing that. God, this is crazy! I've never been this worked up over a girl before and now that I am, I feel so...weird.

Immediately after I down the rest of the dirt-colored liquid in my ceramic mug, the table vibrates ever so slightly from my phone. Michael slowly lowers the paper and eyes me, making his forehead and the two forest green lens the only visible part of his face.

"Qui est-ce?" he questions. "C'est Stephanie, non?" (Who is it? It's Stephanie, isn't it?)

One quick glance at the metallic rectangle tells me he's correct. An address typed onto the glass accompanied by Stephanie's name indicates that she has just texted me. She already told me the time last night, so there's no need for her to remind me of that fact; noon has been engraved in my mind since then.

"Steph and I are looking after Thierry today," I mention as I grab my phone to look up the distance from ours to Thierry's. "She's babysitting him this afternoon and since he's been asking about me, she thought it'd be a good idea if I tagged along."

Michael drops Le Monde in his lap (ha, he dropped the world!) and looks back at me with a sly smirk plastered on his face. I thought he'd be surprised, but apparently not. He can't possibly think anything will happen between us when we're simply watching her nephew. Sure, he'll probably need a nap, but that doesn't mean there'll be time for just us. I don't even think she likes me like that. I'm positive Steph only likes me as a friend. I'm not screwing up the relationship we've already built by doing something stupid like telling her that she inspired me with this play a bit more than the moon has.

"Ashton, je suis pas stupid. Je sais que tu l'aime. Il suffit de lui demander de sortir, déjà!" (I'm not stupid. I know you like her. Just ask her out already!)

"No. No fucking way," I breathe with wide eyes. "Je peux pas le faire, Michael. Things would get awkward, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't like me like that." (I can't do it.)

Michael chuckles and shakes his head. "Ashton, Ashton, Ashton. Tu est très naïve. Tu l'aimes, elle t'aimes, et c'est très evident." (You're so naïve. You like her, she likes you, and it's obvious.)

"You don't know that," I challenge as I cross my arms and sigh. "Besides, what am I supposed to tell her? That I think she's kickass and she's a big inspiration for this play I'm writing?"

"Ah, c'est comme Moulin Rouge!" he exclaims with a clap of his hands, causing me to groan. "Tu es Christian et elle est Satine sauf elle n'a pas TB." (It's like Moulin Rouge! You're Christian and she's Satine, except she doesn't have TB.)

"I should hope she doesn't have TB!" I scoff as I rise from my seat. "Whatever. I'm gonna go since I've got a couple of hours to get there and I don't know how traffic's going to play out today."

"Bon chance (good luck), Christian!"

"DUDE, SHUT UP! THIS ISN'T A FUCKING MUSICAL MOVIE!"

I hear Michael mock me as I exit the living area. I slam the door shut and head straight for a mirror. Inspecting my reflection, I realize I have a lot of work to do in order to make myself somewhat presentable for the afternoon. My curls are tousled, and not in the best way, and my eyes look a little bloodshot from all of those late night writing sessions and phone calls with Stephanie.

"Fuck, I look like shit," I mutter as I run a hand through my hair, which is a bit damp from the humidity in the air. "You've got your work cut out for you, Ash. Let's just hope the rest of the day doesn't parallel your mood."

***

My Über pulls up to quite possibly the lushest mansion I've ever laid eyes upon. I check the address on Stephanie's text just to make sure I haven't made a mistake by telling my driver to take me to the wrong destination. Nope. This definitely is the correct address. 

I feel misplaced by walking up to the enormous entrance of the building in sneakers, a singlet, and running shorts. You'd probably feel intimidated, too, if you were in my shoes. The beautifully gated, white house looks familiar. Judging from this place, I have a feeling that Thierry's parents are pretty damn important in France, probably government officials of sorts.

I anxiously text Stephanie so she knows that I've arrived and study the building. Judging from the architecture and the slightly fading ochre paint, I'd say that this mansion has been in Thierry's family for centuries, probably dating as far back as the 17th Century. A big sigh of relief escapes as the ornately large door open, revealing an incredibly eager little boy with chestnut hair. Thierry runs straight into my arms and tackles me to the ground.

"Ashton, vous me manquez! (I missed you!)" he cries as he nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck.

"C'est le même pour moi, Thierry," I assure the boy with a chuckle whilst giving him a noogie (Same for me, Thierry.)

"It's like you guys have been separated for years when it's only been a few weeks," Stephanie notes. "Thierry, laisse-t-il! Il faut qu'Ashton respirer." (Thierry, leave him alone! Ashton has to breathe.)

"Auntie Stephanie, eet 'as been zat long!" Thierry pouts, scrambling to get off of me.

I watch as Thierry grumbles, crossing his arms over his little chest out of anger towards his aunt while she shakes her head in disapproval. It's pretty adorable how well she's handling his behavior. She's like a pro. Then again, Stephanie has had to deal with him for quite some time since he is family. Once I'm back on two feet, I notice the two men in black suits standing behind the pair. Neither of them are as tall as me, but they're definitely intimidating with their sunnies on and stoic expression.

"Uh, Steph...who are they?" I whisper as I cock my head towards the men.

"They're our bodyguards," she replies rather nonchalantly, with a simple shrug of her shoulders.

"B-bodyguards?" I stammer, my eyes widening and glasses fogging up as I start perspiring. "Wh-why do you need b-bodyguards?"

"You have got to be kidding me, Ash. Do you realize what you're standing in front of right now?"

I give Stephanie and Thierry a blank expression. I'm completely lost. I don't know the significance of this building and for some reason, I should, according to Steph. In my defense, I'm not even French! I'm Australian, so what do I know about France besides the Revolution, art, and culture?

"Enlighten me," I demand with a shrug. "Where are we?"

Thierry's eyes light up, making them appear like two jade stones rather than simple, green irises sparkling brilliantly under the sun. He swiftly glances in Stephanie's direction, asking permission to tell me rather than having her say it, and she gives him a little nod of approval.

"Bienvenue à Élysée Palace," Thierry says in his most welcoming voice. (Welcome to Élysée Palace.)

"É-Élysée Palace?" I reiterate in awe as I stare at Steph and Thierry in disbelief. "Y-you mean the place where the French president resides?"

Stephanie simply nods and Thierry shoots me a smug little smile.

"Président Cailleteau est mon père," the curly haired boy states, confirming my now-racing thoughts. (President Cailleteau is my dad.)

"Mon Dieu!" I cry as I properly take in this historic building with wide eyes as I run a hand through my hair.

I should have known the address Stephanie texted me earlier, 55 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, sounded familiar. My mind didn't grasp that I was being taken to one of the most lavish and historic buildings in the 8th arrondissement. 

Palais de l'Élysée has been the official resident of the French president since 1848. The monumental gate with four columns flanked by walls topped by a balustrade I failed to recognize should have been my green light. The grandeur of the circular courtyard should have been my second hint. The final should have been the building, itself: a long, central apartment the State divided in the middle by a large salon that opens into the garden. 

"Hey Ash, if you're done ogling the building, Thierry and I want lunch before we head out," Stephanie mentions, bringing my mind back to the present.

"We're going out?" I ask, stupefied.

"Thierry and I did a bit of planning this morning. We think you'll enjoy where we're going."

"Allez, allez! Venez avec moi!" Thierry impatiently shouts as he stomps his foot on the perfectly manicured lawn. "Tante Stephanie, je veux lui montrer autour avant de partir." (Go, go! Come with me! Aunt Stephanie, I want to show him around before we leave.)

"Je pense pas que tu peux me donner un tour de l'ensemble du bâtement, mate," I note. "Mangeons afin que nous puissions laisser." (I don't think you can give me a a tour of the entire building. Let's eat so we can leave.)

Thierry takes my hand and drags me inside his house, rushing us through Vestibule d'Honneur (Vestible of Honor), the room which the main entrance leads into and where the Président usually greets visiting officials, world leaders, and spiritual leaders. His two body guards shout for him to stop running through the halls, but Thierry doesn't slow down. The preschooler continues his mad dash for food until finally reaching Salle à Manger Paulin (Dining Room Paulin). This gorgeous dining room's interior and furniture dates back to the 1970's. Thierry pulls up one of the single legged chairs and forces me to sit in front of the round, glass table.

"Sorry about that," Stephanie mutters as she sits beside me and catches her breath.

"S'okay," I assure her with a small smile.

Under the lighting of the roof panels decorated with glass balls and rods, Stephanie looks simply divine. A prism of colors shine from the spherical glasses as the sun emits harvest gold light through the open windows on our right. The long, chestnut strands on her head appear almost too perfect and silky due to the lighting. As her eyes meet mine, another idea pops into mind. How can someone give me ideas when my sole inspiration has been faltering at the task?

"You okay there, Ash?" she asks, knitting her brows in concern as food is brought to the table.

"Just admiring the moon," I respond with a small smile as I push my glasses up my nose.

"Ashton, it's not night. There is no moon."

"I mean you, Mademoiselle Lune."

Stephanie blushes and she turns her attention to the chicken on her plate. Thierry is consumed in finishing his meal in the quickest time possible so we can leave. This doesn't seem real; I'm living a dream. There's no way that some kid from Sydney is sitting in the most prestigious dining room in Paris, eating with the fucking Président's five-year-old son. Yet somehow, this is where I am right now. If I play my cards correctly and Luke can manage to make my musical a success, this might be more of an occurrence for Ashton Irwin.

***

The limo pulls up to a building I'm very familiar with: Palais de la Découverte on Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt. This grand, colonial museum houses interactive science and astronomy exhibits, and a presentation program that's sure to feed the curious minds of adults and kids, alike. One step into the grand entry hall, and I'm flabbergasted by the meticulous and artistic interior.

"Where do we even start?" I wonder aloud as my eyes graze the geometric patterns on the floor.

"La Salle de Pi?" Thierry suggests. "Après ça, nous pouvons aller au planétarium et voir les choses astronomique et physique." (The Room of Pi? After that, we have to go to the planetarium and see the astronomy and physics stuff.)

I grab the little boy and kiss the top of his head. "Bon idée! Venez! Venez!" (Good idea! C'mon! C'mon!)

As slowly as possible, the three of us saunter through the entrance hall and make our way to La Salle de Pi, or the Pi Room. The circular room makes me dizzy just by looking at the walls. All 707 digits of the number p are inscribed in either red or black in large, wooden characters on the dome-like ceiling.

"In 1853, mathematician William Shanks made this calculation, from which the digits are based upon. An error in the 528th digit was found in 1946 and corrected three years later," Stephanie informs us.

"Maths is so strange," I retort as I spin myself around to read the entire number.

"Yet fascinating at the same time," she voices with a nudge of my shoulder.

"Je déteste le maths (I hate math)," Thierry chimes in as his little eyes repeatedly look up and down, trying to take in every single digit in sight.

"C'est past très mal pour toi maintenant, mais c'est important pour tes études." (It's not that bad for you right now, but it's very important for your studies.)

Thierry sticks his tongue out and shuts his eyes as if he's just tasted something sour. "Ugh! Merci, non. Je peux pas faire quelque chose avec les maths quand je suis adult. Compter. C'est tout les maths que je dois." (No thanks. I don't want to do something with math when I'm an adult. Counting. That's all the math I need.)

Stephanie and I both chuckle as we grab either of his hands and take them into ours.

"Let's get out of here and learn about astronomy," I suggest. "I think both of you will find that a lot more interesting than stupid pi."

"Science in general. Yaaaawwwnnn," Stephanie teases as she pretends to stifle a yawn with her other hand.

I roll my eyes at her childish behavior and Thierry giggles, clearly finding this funny. If I hang around these two more than today, I'm sure he'll have more to laugh about since we're like this 99% of the time we're together. I don't think he'd mind. As we walk out of La Salle de Pi and back into the grandeur of the museum's corridors, Thierry's hand grips mine with a tightness that could rival the most complicated knot in existence.

Stephanie and I lift Thierry every few steps so his feet come off of the ground. We probably look like a young couple with their kid just having a blast at the science museum when that's far from the truth considering that Thierry is her sister's kid and they're not related to me. An elderly couple give us an adoring look as we pass by; I return it with a faint smile and acknowledging nod. As we continue walking to the astronomy and physics section of the museum, I spy a bed of blond hair on a frame that could match mine and a little girl by his side with bouncy, golden curls. It's probably not them, but it's worth a try to go for the shout out.

"LUKE!" I yell, my voice echoing loudly through the large and lavish walls. "LUKE HEMMMINGS!"

The blond man stops walking and turns around. As his ocean blue eyes meet my hazel ones, he waves, beckoning us over to join the little girl and him. Stephanie and Thierry don't even notice what's going on right now because they can't see pass the mass of people in front of us. An advantage of being tall, I suppose.

"Guys, Luke et Fleur sont ici," I clue them in. "Allez vite." (Guys, Luke and Fleur are here. Come quickly.)

Rather than having Thierry's little legs jog to keep up with my long strides and Stephanie's quick steps, I carry him on my shoulders as if he were my own little brother. I immediately place him back on the ground once we're all caught up with the Hemmingses. Luke dons a smile that shows off the small, metallic piercing on his lip as Stephanie comes to view.

"It's good to see you again, Ashton," he greets, holding out a hand for me to shake.

"Likewise. Same goes for you, Mr. Hemmings," I answer back.

"Please don't call me that. That's the last thing I want you to call me. Seriously, just call me Luke. We're mates now. Is this your uh, your girlfriend?"

Stephanie and I both blush at Luke's words. She runs a hand through her hair whilst I shuffle my feet, averting my gaze to the floor.

"Ils sont amis. C'est tout," Thierry carefully clears up. "Stephanie est ma tante et elle a invité Ashton à aller ici avec nous. Nous venons d'aller l'exposé d'astronomie et physique car Ashton aime la lune." (They're friends. That's all. Stephanie is my aunt and she invited Ashton to join us. We're going to astronomy and physics exhibit because Ashton likes the moon.)

I shoot Thierry a warning glance. I don't care that he's the Président's son. He's only five and needs to respect the authority of his elders. I don't want Luke to think my writing habits are silly or unorthodox, even if that's what they might seem like to most people. I get it, but that's what works for me, and I'm not about to change my night writing routine soon.

"What can I say? The moon is an incredible celestial object," I say in defense with a shrug. "So, should we get going, or what? I don't want to waste any of the kids' time by just standing here."

"Alright. Apès moi, tout le monde! (After me, everyone!)" Stephanie announces, taking Thierry and Fleur's hands in hers.

Luke and I follow the trio as they lead the way. Some whisper at the sight of Thierry Cailleteau strutting along in the arms of some random girl (a lot of people think Steph's his nanny or au pair).

"So...Stephanie," Luke presses as the kids and she run into the planetarium. "She's really pretty. And American, I think from her accent?"

"Yeah. She's here for culinary school. She works at Michael's grandmother's bakery. That's how I know her."

"But she's related to the president," he reminds me. "Why the hell would she work at Menardin when she could easily work for one of the top pastry chefs in the world?"

I chuckle and stop in my tracks to admire Stephanie, Fleur, and Thierry as they clamber over the "astrophysique des étoiles" (astronomy of the stars) exhibit and look at the Hertzeprung-Russel diagram. This is Stephanie in her element. She doesn't need her sister to serve her a job on a golden platter. She'd rather enjoy the little things taking her nephew to a science museum or going on a nighttime scooter ride to L'Observatoire Paris. She wants to work for her position, not bank on her family's name.

"Look at Fleur and Thierry, Luke. Look at how much fun they're having with Steph right now. If her sister had handed her a job or given her an advance on opening her own pastry shop, she wouldn't be doing this. 

"She parallels the moon in more than her name. Like the moon, Stephanie has a knack for illuminating the darkest moments. She has flaws like the moon's craters and maria, yet she gives no shits about it. It takes the moon approximately twenty-seven days to fully revolve around the Earth at a mean orbital velocity of 1.022 km/s as it moves relative to the stars each hour. My point is, the moon takes its time and moves at a nearly constant velocity to achieve what it needs in a month. No matter which phase we receive in our view at night, it's the moon. Stephanie is the same. She doesn't need to be successful straight away. She can take her time and cherish all that life throws at her. She'll still be the same, gorgeous person that she is," I explain.

Luke shakes his head and sighs, patting my back. "She's your inspiration, isn't she? She's your muse, your very own lune in the flesh."

The understanding look in his eyes as I admit defeat and throw my head back doesn't help. Michael and Amélie know that I've changed muses over the past week or so, but now that Luke knows that I like her, I feel like everything is magnified.

"How much of the script have you written?" he digresses.

"Uh...I've written a couple songs and about three scenes," I confess. "I've been distracted and I had to scrap what I had before. I've started fresh with a new story."

"As long as you believe in what you're writing, there's no problem," he assures me with another pat on my back. "I want to read through the script before you leave Paris. You can do that, right?"

I shift my attention away from Luke and bring it towards Stephanie and the kids for a second. I completely forgot about my time dilemma until he brought it up. I only have about a month and a half until I head back to Sydney, which means my time writing and being here with Stephanie is exponentially diminishing. I have to savor every phone call, every moment I have from now on.

"I have about six more weeks here," I mention, my gaze still fixated on the brunette, who's smiling at she points at something on the ceiling. "It's going to take a lot of work and I'm going to lose a lot of sleep, but I can get it written before I leave."

"Good. And in the meantime, you should get your girl, too. Don't want to miss the opportunity and have her fall for someone else, you know."

Easier said than done, Luke. If only asking Steph out were as easy as gazing into the night sky and studying the luminance of the moon as you ponder its beauty. C'est pas le même. Les deux lunes sont très differentes. Mais au même fois, elles sont un peu similaires. Nous verrons ce qui se passe ensuite. (It's not the same. The two moons are different. But at the same time, they have some similarities. We'll see what happens next.)