oranges in july: part two, the blue hour

the sun slipped behind the hills like it had grown tired, painting everything in soft blues and dusty gold. that quiet hour — l’heure bleue, he called it — where the world exhales and the day folds itself into memory.

we walked barefoot to his cottage, shoes in hand, hands tangled like ivy. the gravel crunched beneath us, warm from the day. my skin still tasted like oranges and his fingers still remembered the curve of my waist.

inside, a record played something slow and crackling — a woman’s voice in french, singing like she was in love with the moon. he opened a bottle of wine with his teeth and a grin, handed me a glass and said “tu vas tomber amoureuse de ce vin".

i tilted my head. “tomber… fall? amoureuse… in love?”

he laughed, dimples appearing. “yes. you will fall in love with this wine".

i sipped, smiled. “too late. already did.”

he raised a brow. “with the wine?”

“uh huh" i said, too quickly, then turned away to hide the heat in my cheeks.

we ended up in the kitchen, my legs swinging on the counter, his hands covered in peach juice and olive oil. he hummed as he cooked — not well, but sweetly — and kept glancing at me like i was the prettiest thing in the room. i teased him for using too much salt. he kissed me to shut me up.

“i like your english” i said, breathless, lips still tingling. “it‘s charming".

he smirked. “i like your french… it is…how you say…terrible".

i gasped. “you did not say that!”

“honest” he shrugged. “but very cute”. then kissed me again, slower this time, like punctuation at the end of a sentence he wanted to repeat.

later, we carried our plates outside to the little garden — a table beneath string lights, glowing just enough to make everything feel a little unreal. the breeze had returned, lifting the hem of my dress. he noticed, touched my knee gently under the table.

“so” he asked, pouring more wine "how long you stay in france?”

“not long enough" i whispered, thinking of how i need to go back home soon.

he looked at me like he wanted to memorize my face. “then we must kiss more. to save time".

and before i could reply, his lips were on mine again — soft and sure, tasting like red wine and summer heat. he kissed me like it was a language. one i understood better than french. one that didn’t need translation.

later still, we lay on the rug inside, a fan buzzing somewhere above, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.

he traced lazy circles on my back. “say something to me in french".

i frowned. “i only know silly phrases".

“say them anyway".

i leaned closer to his ear. “je suis une pomme de terre" knowing well what i just said.

he blinked, then burst out laughing. “you just said you are… a potato".

“romantic, non?” i replied.

“very.” he kissed me again, laughing into my mouth. “my jolie patate".

we didn’t sleep much that night. we kept kissing — in between sentences, in between songs, in between breaths. some kisses were deep and hungry, others soft as a sigh. and in those quiet moments between lips and laughter, i realized: i didn’t want to leave. not soon. not ever.

but that’s what makes it all the more tender.

the knowing that you have to go.

and kissing like maybe you won’t.

— Lux