Stephanie Lune: Hey there, stranger. Thanks for the poms earlier and saving me from melting to death before class. Let's grab lunch or coffee tomorrow. My treat. It's the least I can do to repay you.

A charcoal sky trickled with minuscule, luminescent stars and a waxing crescent is all I see as I sit on the rooftop of Michael and my building, but that message is all I can think about. I'm usually not one for distractions when it comes to my writing. I just gaze into the distance, overlooking the beautifully dazzling city of lights as I breathe in the cool, summer air and open my mind to whatever peaks my interest. It's not really saying much since I've only been here for a week, but that's what I've been doing during my short time here thus far. It's been working pretty well. My writing sessions usually go from midnight to about 3 AM, sometimes even later, so I always bring up a traveling mug full of black coffee and some snacks just so I have some fuel to keep me going.

Tonight isn't one of those nights. Tonight, my mind is clouded with a mist that hinders me from thinking about a potential story-line for this next musical. I say next, but this will legitimately be the first I actually finish. I honestly haven't the faintest idea what I want to write about anymore. Before this afternoon, I had a clear vision of what could be my breakout musical. I had this idea of a story set in Ancient Rome about an emperor and his secret lover, but I'm not sure it's the right story to elaborate on now. It doesn't seem like a worthy concept anymore. I'm having major doubts because of Stephanie.

Stephanie...with eyes as green as emeralds, hair as silky as thread and liver chestnut like the coat of a Morgan horse , and a smile so infectious, it could be the best disease known to mankind. Pourquoi La Louvre à cette heure particulèrement? Pourquoi moi? Pourquoi entre-t-elle à ma vie? (Why the Louvre at that particular time? Why me? Why did she enter my life?)

Whilst I bite the edge of the felt tip pen in hand and stare into the moonlight, my mind wanders to what tomorrow might bring. I had agreed to meet Stephanie at my favorite café in the city for coffee, La Lune Bleue, which happens to be a few blocks away from La Louvre. We agreed on meeting at the same spot we had met just to make things easier for the both of us. We didn't send anymore messages after deciding upon that. We just kinda left it there.

After placing the pen between the creases of the second and third digits of my right hand, I rhythmically drum out a beat by tapping it against the black notebook sitting on my lap. Think, Ashton. Think! You've got to have some idea trapped in the corners of your mind. C'mon, put on your thinking cap and spit it out!

A warm breeze kisses my skin as I take off my glasses, carefully set them aside, and close my eyes. I deeply inhale and exhale as I just sit there and try to clear my thoughts. Once my hazel irises open and catch Notre Dame in the distance, I anxiously grab my glasses and place them back on my face. The glorious cathedral is exquisite under the night sky, even if I can only see its roof and the bell tower. My eyes move from the famed cathedral to another iconic Parisian structure, arguably the most famous landmark in the city, La Tour Eiffel. At an impressive 1,063 ft, this structure towers above everything in sight, serving as a beacon of hope and camaraderie as it shines its light on Paris. Despite the stars and the moon competing for a chance to shine on this brilliant, summer night, they can't compare to La Tour Eiffel.

"Ah, La Tour Eiffel. C'est très romantique et brillant, non?" a familiar voice asks from what seems like right behind me. (Ah, the Eiffel Tower. It's very romantic and brilliant, isn't it?)

Michael's messy, blond hair sticks from every angle of his head as he widely grins back at me. He has my coffee tumbler and a bag of cashews in his hands and dangles them in front of my face just when my stomach decides to grumble. I obnoxiously groan and rub my stomach whilst Michael just stands there and laughs his ass off like this is the funniest thing he's ever seen.

"C'est pas comique, Michael!" I fume with a glare. "Donne-les à moi!" (It's not funny, Michael. Give them to me!)

"Non." he answers with a smirk. "Arretez pour le soir. C'est 4h 35." (No. Stop writing for the night. It's 4:35 AM.)

My eyes instantly grow wide upon this news. I didn't realize it was that late right now. I climbed up here at about 12:15. It honestly doesn't feel like it's past 2:30 yet somehow, it's two hours later! It doesn't even look like it's that late in the morning because the moon is hanging onto the sky, hovering above Michael and me with the utmost authority bestowed upon Mother Nature while her little children, aka the stars, have gone to bed because it's too late for them to be out now. Just to make sure Michael isn't trying to fool me, I check the time on my phone. 4:35 on the dot. He's right.

"Allez! Allez! Allez!" Michael yells as he motions for me to climb back into the building. (Go! Go! Go!)

"D'accord. J'y vais!" I sigh, running a hand through the mop of curls on my head. (Alright. I'm coming!)

Michael doesn't hesitate to lead me into my room and shut the door once we're back inside. He never even told me what time he returned from work. He just took my notebook and pen away from me, placing them on top of the fridge, then proceeded to drag me into my room, insisting that I get some shuteye before running down to Menardin in a few hours. 

I didn't argue because I knew he was extremely exhausted from that meeting last night. Despite it being nearly summer and the fact that he's a teacher, the school board is going mental. I thought teachers, especially ones who teach preschool, had it easy. Guess I was wrong. But it's not like I'm breezing through this musical, either. I didn't write a single thing in that notebook because of her!

Her. Stephanie, the mystery girl studying culinary arts from yesterday. The reason why I couldn't think of a single thing tonight during those four hours on the rooftop, the reason why my usually enjoyable moonlit writing session was a complete waste of time.

As I lie in bed with just a pair of black boxer shorts on, staring at the dimly lit ceiling whilst the night sluggishly turns to day, my eyes remain open. They simply won't shut because they're wide awake. Even if I close them for ten seconds, it's not like I'm going to instantaneously fall asleep. How can I possibly sleep knowing that tonight's session totally bombed? How can I sleep, knowing that I'll be vis-à-vis with the mysteriously adorable, green-eyed girl again?

"Just try to sleep, Ashton," I think aloud as I shut my eyes for what seems like the thousandth time. "Maybe an idea will come in a dream. The moon's still out. It hasn't completely left yet. I won't go away until sunrise, Ash. Use that thought and dream up a synopsis for that unwritten musical."

Snugly under the covers, I attempt to fall asleep. About fifteen minutes into this bid for slumber, I flip over to the other side. Useless. Morning birds outside can be heard and through my shut eyelids, I can sense that the sky has successfully transitioned from charcoal to azure, or a possibly lighter shade of blue. Morning traffic and early risers have now added to the cacophony commenced by the birds and whatever other creatures lurk around at this ungodly hour.

I flutter my lids open, not awake since I didn't sleep a wink, and groggily palm the oak nightstand by my bed in search of my phone. A massive yawn erupts as I stretch my arms whilst viewing the time on the screen. 6:15. It's no use going back to sleep now, Ash. Might as well shower and get dressed before heading out to the boulangerie-pâtisserie.

After another giant yawn and rubbing my eyes awake, I head towards the bathroom right across my bedroom with my silver towel in hand. I notice Michael's closed door and contemplate whether or not I should wake him up, but decide against it. He can be quite the grouch if he involuntarily gets up, so I'm doing myself a favor by letting him sleep on and walking straight into the bathroom.

Cold, sand-colored tiles send shivers down my spine as I take each step towards the glass shower just a few feet away. It only take about five seconds to reach the foot of the shower, but it feels like a lifetime. After slipping out of my boxers and casting it aside, I cautiously step into the shower, taking careful note to properly close the door shut. Being inside the shower doesn't make my body less cold than it was a few seconds ago. The only difference is that I'm fully exposed and locked inside a glass box.

The second hot water jets out of the shower head and rains on my body, I relax. Before the water hit me, I was tense from the lack of sleep and shivering despite the humidity diffusing throughout the building. Now, as I grab the green loofa dangling on the wall and squirt some body wash into it, I feel serene. There's something so soothing about a hot shower in the wee hours of the morning. As I wash my body, I hum the melody of one of my all-time favorite piano compositions, Claude Debussy's "Clare de Lune." Steam rises and the rhythmic flow of hot, clear liquid showers down on my naked body as I move onto the honey curls on my head. Minutes later, water and steam cease to engulf me, and I step onto the bathroom floor feeling rejuvenated.

Michael's door opens at the same time I exit the bathroom. His emerald eyes mockingly scan down my toned chest to the silver towel wrapped around my waist as if he is checking me out. I scoff and roll my eyes as I cross my arms. Michael runs a hand through his blond locks and chuckles.

"Looking good, Irwin!" he greets me with a wink as he claps a hand on my right scapula.

"Aww, tu ne me parles pas en français ce matin? Quel horreur!" I voice in mock sadness as I pout my lips. (Aww, you're not talking to me in French this morning? What horror!)

"Not today, Ashton. I see you took ze liberté of actually waking yourself up. Mon Dieu! C'est un miracle!" (My God! It's a miracle!)

"Shut up, Mikey!" I scoff as I lightly shove him. "Je dors pas hier soir. C'est pourquoi je me reveille il y a vingt minutes. Now if you excuse me, I'm gonna put on some pants and head to Menardin. See ya when I get back." (I didn't sleep last night. That's why I got up twenty minutes ago.)

Michael immediately steps aside without a word. I thought I was going to make it to my room without another snide remark, but as soon as I get a hand on the knob and open the door, I fall flat on my face. Whilst I get up and mutter obscenities, Michael slaps his knees and laughs his ass off, finding his little tripping prank incredibly hilarious.

"Oh très mûr, Michael!" I scold my flat mate. "Nous avons le même âge, mais tu est plus mûr que moi!" (Oh, so mature, Michael! We're the same age, but you're less mature than me!)

"I need somesing to brighten my mornings, Ashton!" he argues with a shrug. "Don't act like you didn't expect eet, mon ami. Eet was bound to 'appen."

"Whatever," I grumble before shutting the door and separating myself from Michael again.

I gravitate towards the oak dresser and grab a clean pair of boxers and a pair of basketball shorts, changing into them once I throw the towel on the floor. The black-rimmed square spectacles are the next thing I put on because I'd rather be able to have 20/20 vision right now than file through the closet for a shirt. It's already a whopping 32°C outside and it's only 6:50. I put on a pair of socks and Nikes on my feet before rummaging through the poor selection of singlets and shirts in my closet. I decide on a white The Strokes singlet and grab it, but don't put it on my body.

"I'll put it on when I get to Menardin," I decide as I exit my room.

***

Adrenaline courses through my veins and the sound of Taking Back Sunday's "Error: Operator" blares into my eardrums as I sprint down the street, overtaking early morning walkers as I zoom past by. Back in my room, I decided that a morning run would be nice, even if it meant arriving at the little boulangerie-pâtisserie all hot and sweaty. I don't think Amélie Clifford or anyone in the shop would mind. She's a cheeky woman, Michael's grandma is.

I run past numerous buildings which have become familiar during my short time in Paris so far. Nine days in, and I know every single building between my apartment building and Menardin. I tend to see the same faces come out of certain buildings each morning, which is comforting. Right now, I don't have time to stop say 'bonjour' to Gérard and Céline Boutard as they take their baby daughter, Isabelle, on a morning stroll. I don't have time to stop and admire how crisp and fresh the morning air is when I'm on a run. I don't have time for anything except to focus on my destination.

Of course I would come across a 'no walking' zone and have to stop whilst cars get the green light to carry on. Anxiously, I jump in place and scope out the area. I'm standing at the intersection of Rue Dépordeau and Rue Rivolet and the streets are surprisingly packed for a Saturday morning. Car after car zooms past as I have to stand here and wait my turn to continue running.

"Aww c'mon!" I mutter as what seems like the fiftieth car passes by. "Laissez-moi courir!"(Let me run!)

My frustration diminishes once I lay my eyes on a petite brunette across the street. Her chestnut hair trails behind in a ponytail, swishing from side to side as she repeatedly looks from left to right. When her emerald eyes lock onto mine for a split second, my heart jumps. I'd recognize them anywhere even though I just met them yesterday. 

Stephanie waves at me before a large truck blocks her from my view. Just like magic, she disappears as if she were a magician's assistant and the truck was black sheet that allowed the trick to happen. Either Stephanie was really standing there, or my mind's playing trick on me. Must be because she's all I could think about and I couldn't write at all.

The traffic light finally turns red for the car idly waiting in front of me. After putting on some Yellowcard, I continue my run and zoom down Rue Dépordeau. A flock of birds hover above me as I cut across a small park, a shortcut I discovered just a few days ago. The combination of the run and the insane heat this morning is making me worn out than normally. My lungs are screaming to take a break but despite my now-heavy breaths, I valiantly continue on like a man.

When I finally reach Menardin, I slip on the singlet and take a second to catch my breath. With earbuds no longer plugged deep into the depths of my eardrums, I feel weird being able to hear car engines, birds tweeting, shoes click-clacking as people walk by, and chatter. Sweat glistens down my arms as the sun shines its first rays upon my tanned skin. I run a hand through my matted curls and sigh before walking towards the boulangerie-pâtisserie.

Menardin has just opened fifteen minutes ago. The intoxicating scent of various fresh breads immediately engulf my olfactory senses after a single foot through the door. On my left, I spy neatly arranged pains of every type imaginable in a French bakery, and I'm drawn to them from the get go. I scan oven-fresh baguettes, batards, ficelles, pains de campagne, and pains complet, among many others, salivating over them in the process.

"How the hell am I supposed to choose just a few when I want them all?" I complain aloud as my eyes rest on a particularly delicious looking loaf of pain au levain, which you might know as sourdough bread.

"Eenie, meenie, miny, moe?" suggests a female voice that sounds oddly familiar, her accent not sounding French in the least.

I spin about 45° to my left and meet the face of a petite brunette in black skinny jeans and a turquoise tee under the white apron with Menardin Boulangerie-Pâtisserie sewn in royal blue thread. Her long, chestnut locks are firmly tied up in a ponytail and her emerald eyes sparkle as they greet my hazel ones.

"St-Stephanie?" I breathe out in a question, taken aback by her presence. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Stephanie isn't even looking at my face. Her eyes are glued to my arms and she even follows them when I cross them over my chest. When I clear my throat, she steps out of her little trance and bashfully looks at me.

"Um...wh-what did you say, Ashton?"

"I asked you what you're doing here, silly!" I remind her with a chuckle. "But I guess my arms are too distracting. Sorry. I shouldn't have gone for a run before I came here."

"Y-you just went for a run?" she asks, incredulous. "Wow. Major motivation. I could never get up early to go on a run."

"But you can get up early to bake bread?" I jest.

Stephanie scoffs and rolls her eyes as she places her tiny hand on her hips. "If it wasn't obvious from the apron, I work here. So yes, I would get up early to bake bread, Mr. Fitness."

"Mr. Fitness. That's a good one, Stephanie! My flat mate, Michael, would never get up this early to go on a run. Then again, I didn't even sleep last night. I just thought a run would wake me up more, and it did. And now I'm here, and I want bread, please. Wait, where's Amélie?"

"Ici, Ashton! Bon matin, mon petit!" the little old lady calls from out of nowhere. (Here, Ashton! Good morning, dear!)

Stephanie turns me so that I'm facing the counter, where Amélie is with a loaf of fresh baguette in hand (I can literally smell the freshness of the bread from where we're standing. It's that powerful). I look at Stephanie and she shrugs her shoulders before taking my sweaty hand and leading me towards the counter. The huge smile on Amélie's face as she eyes our hands makes me automatically shy away from Stephanie.

"Aston et moi, nous avons rencontré hier près de la Louvre," the small brunette explains in nearly impeccable French. "Il m'a sauvé de la fonte dans la chaleur. C'était très gentil à faire."(Ashton and I met yesterday by the Louvre. He saved me from melting in the heat. It was very nice to do.)

The wrinkles around Amélie's eyes as she smiles somehow make her look younger than her...okay, I don't know how old she is because Michael never told me and she definitely wouldn't have told me, herself, but they do make her look younger. She carefully places the loaf on the counter and walks around so that she is no longer behind it. Stephanie and I give each other very perplexed looks; neither of us know what's going on in Amélie's mind as she approaches us. She takes both of our hands, placing mine on top of hers, and just smiles that kind, beautiful smile of hers.

"Amélie, qu'est-ce que c'est?" Stephanie asks for both of us. (What is it?)

"Ah, ma petite chou-chou, c'est toi," the silver haired lady responds with a questionable twinkle her eyes. (Oh, my dear, it's you.)

"Je comprends pas," I voice. "Et mes mains sont moites. Desolé pour ça. J'ai couru." (I don't understand. And my hands are sweaty. Sorry for that. I was running.)

"C'est evident, mon petit. Les mains moites, les cheveux humides...mais tu es très fort, Ashton! Pas comme mon Michael." (It's obvious, my dear. Sweaty hands, wet hair...but you're strong, Ashton. Not like Michael.)

I burst into laughter solely because Amélie mentioned her grand-son. I've only known Michael for a little over a week, but I know for a fact that he doesn't do runs or any type of workout. But he's a preschool teacher, so he's used to running around and taking care of kids. That's his excuse of not needing to exercise. It's a good one, but I still think he should go on runs with me. Once I've gained my composure, I turn to the two women standing on either side of me. Stephanie looks at me like I've just lost my mind.

"Who's Michael?" she whispers so softly that I know for a fact Amélie can't hear.

"Michael Clifford? He's my flat mate and Amélie's grandson. He's my age, and he's actually a preschool teacher at one of the écoles," I explain. "He doesn't really like to exercise and we even had an argument once about how running around with five-year-olds isn't the same as putting in legit time for a workout."

"Sounds like quite a catch," the brunette muses with a smirk.

"So, I take it you don't want to go to La Lune Bleue this afternoon?" I question as a run a hand through my hair.

"N-no! I still want to go," Stephanie answers. "Just go get your bread and I'll ring you up and see you this afternoon, Ashton!"

"Fiiinnneee," I huff.

She does have a point. I've been in this bakery for about twenty minutes now and Michael's probably wondering where the hell I've gone. I go back to the selection of pain and peruse each basket to make the hardest decision I'll probably have to make all morning. Hmm...Michael really likes pain de campagne and baguette, but I'm really in the mood for brioche. WHAT DO YOU DO, ASHTON?

Stephanie eyes me skeptically as I place two loafs of baguette and a loaf of pain de campagne and brioche in front of her. I simply shrug my shoulders and fix my glasses, which have slid down my nose, as she rings me up.

"Okay, that's five even," she announces as the register makes that little ding! noise.

I hand her over a 5 bill and feel a wave of electric rush through me as our hands lightly brush. Stephanie smiles whilst putting the money in the register. Somehow, my hands feel heavy with the four loaves of bread in my arms even though they're light. I give her a little nod before heading towards the door.

"Hey Ash, can I just say something?" she shouts once my hand reaches the glass door.

I turn my head in her direction and nod. "Sure. What is it?"

"This just kinda came to me. My last name's Lune and the café you chose is La Lune Bleue. Is there some crazy coincidence with you and the word "moon" or what?"

"It's just a coincidence, I guess," I answer with a chuckle. "I'll see you at...what time do you get off work?"

"I'm here basically all day. We can just go for lunch at say, one-ish?"

"I'll see you one, then," I announce before opening and heading out the door.

As I walk away from Menardin and towards Michael and my apartment, in this grueling heat, Stephanie's words linger in my thoughts. Little does she know, the moon's a big part of your life, Ash. It's gotta be a sign or something that it just so happens to be your last name and she wandered into your life yesterday. Maybe you were meant to be friends. It's not like you can have two muses, right? Besides, she what could she possibly see in you? She'd probably think you're crazy for writing at night and risking so much sleep for something that might never happen. You can't let a girl get in the way of your dreams, Ashton. Befriend Stephanie, but don't get too close.