"What are you doing?" I ask quietly, shifting impatiently in bed.
You're stood across the room from me with your elbows propped up on the windowsill and your chin resting in your palms. The window is open, letting a light, cool breeze in. It's a relief after non-stop stifling heat since we arrived in Paris this morning.
"Just looking at the stars," you reply. Without even seeing me do it, you add, "And don't you roll your eyes at me for being clichéd. You love that about me."
Smiling, I clamber out of bed and tread barefoot across the room to you. "Indeed I do."
You move aside slightly when I approach, enough so that I can fit in front of you. Your arms wrap around my waist as I lean forwards to get a better view. The night seems darker than usual, a blanket of inky darkness embroidered with an infinite number of tiny stars. Below us, the streets of Paris are quiet and subdued; the stark contrast from the bustling day time only adds to the sense of magic about this moment.
"So, which one's our star?" you ask softly.
My eyes scan the sky, until I decide on one that seems fitting for whatever reason - bright and on the edge of a cluster of others. I point it out and you move your head to mine in order to follow the line of my outstretched arm.
"Good choice," you say, kissing my forehead.
"Thank you," I reply, smiling even wider.
I turn away from the window, taking hold of your hand to prompt you to do the same. Hand in hand, leading you to bed, I think that this love must be written in the stars for it to be this good.