Nothing to Hide

Author's note

"The TikTok clip mentioned in Chapter 1 is real. It features a French literature teacher interviewed on RTL radio, discussing student cheating. You can find it by searching 'RTL triche' on TikTok."

Chapter 1

Anna hadn't planned to work that day.

She was scrolling TikTok, not searching, just evading, when the video caught her. A French journalist's voice, clipped and careful, played over subtitles.

"This literature teacher, who's been teaching for thirty years, says it's getting worse. That the only real way to stop students from cheating during exams... would be to make them take the test naked."

Anna turned the sound on.

There was no image of the teacher, only her voice, low, calm, matter-of-fact. She described how, during mock exams, they'd asked students to place their phones in a box before the test. Afterward, they found the box filled with decoys, old flip phones, cracked screens. The real ones, the students had kept.

They had cheated anyway. Quietly. Systematically.

The journalist continued: 560 candidates had been caught cheating the previous year. Fourteen percent more than the year before. Over half had used some kind of screen.

The clip ended there, as if the number spoke for itself.

Anna watched it again. Not for shock. For tone. That voice, not angry, not dramatic, just tired. Like a system giving out one sigh at a time.

She copied the link. Sent it to her editor with one word:

"France."

His reply came two hours later.

"You want it?"

She hesitated. It wasn't a real story yet. But there was something under it.

"There's a national exam in two days. Sorbonne. I could be there."

He didn't ask for a pitch.

"Go. Take David."

They landed Thursday, late morning. The sky over Paris was a clean gray, soft-edged. From the taxi, the city looked wide open, trees full and green, sidewalks damp but clean, bikes weaving easily through traffic. Flowerbeds overflowed on the medians. Along the Seine, people were walking, slowly, like they had time.

Anna leaned back, watching the city roll past. She hadn't been here in years. It felt lighter now. More porous. Less theatrical than she'd remembered, and somehow more sincere.

Their hotel was tucked into a quiet street in the Latin Quarter, a five-minute walk from the Sorbonne. The building was narrow, six stories, vines curling over the iron balconies. Her room was on the third floor, small, high-ceilinged, a desk facing a tall window with a view of the street below and, just beyond the rooftops, the rounded dome of the amphitheater where the exam would take place.

David's room was across the hall. They didn't make plans. She sent him a message to meet for coffee.

They walked to a corner café without talking much. It was cool in the shade, warm in the sun. The streets felt easy, lived-in. Patches of wildflowers pushed through the edges of the sidewalks. A delivery bike passed, quiet as a breeze.

She mentioned the video again. David hadn't seen it.

"We'll find the story on the ground," he said. It wasn't dismissive. Just how he worked.

Later that afternoon, they picked up their credentials at the Ministry of Education, a clean building tucked behind a quiet courtyard. Inside: polished tile, brass fixtures, large windows that let in too much light for a government office.

The woman at the press desk wore a navy suit and soft grey sneakers. She greeted them by name, efficient and polite.

"You've been approved for access," she said. "You may speak with candidates before and after the exam. Interviews must be conducted outside the amphitheater. A press conference will be held tomorrow at 2 p. m. at the Sorbonne."

Anna nodded.

The woman hesitated, then reached for a folder.

"One update. Tomorrow's session will include accredited observers inside the hall. No filming. No recording. But presence is allowed, for select outlets."

David leaned forward slightly.

"Observers?"

"Yes. To ensure transparency."

"And we're eligible?"

"You are. But there is a condition."

She passed them a printed document. No bold fonts. No red stamps. Just calm language, carefully structured.

"All observers must follow the same security protocol as examinees. No clothing. No personal objects. Full parity."

Anna read the page. It didn't use the word naked. It said device-neutral. Unencumbered. Uniform procedure.

David glanced at her. Then at the paper.

"You can decline," the woman added. "But you won't be permitted inside the amphitheater."

Anna folded the paper once, then again.

"We'll do it," she said.

David nodded beside her.

"Arrival is at 7:30 sharp. Courtyard entrance. Bring nothing."

Outside, the sky had cleared. Students biked past in singles and pairs, balanced and unhurried. The city breathed around them, vines climbing lamp posts, bees in the flowerbeds along the median, café tables spilling into the street without fuss.

They stopped at a café near Rue des Écoles. Ordered sandwiches. Sparkling water. Said nothing for a while.

Finally Anna asked:

"You sure?"

David didn't hesitate.

"We go in together."

At 2 p. m., the Sorbonne hosted the official press briefing in one of the old vaulted lecture halls, all stone arches, long echoes, and that faint chalk-dust scent that seemed to live permanently in French institutions.

About thirty journalists were present. Some local, some foreign, a few students with campus press badges. A row of folding chairs faced a modest table where a Ministry spokesperson sat with a stack of notes and a plastic water bottle already half-empty.

She was the same woman who'd briefed them at the Ministry. Composed. Dry-toned. Precise.

"This year's examination," she began, "is being conducted under a full-spectrum parity protocol, developed in collaboration with institutional partners and cognitive behavior specialists, in response to a documented rise in technological fraud."

She paused just long enough for pens to catch up.

"The goal is not surveillance," she continued, "but fairness. A rebalancing of attention. A return to the exam as a moment of thought, not competition."

She went on like that, fifteen minutes of polished phrasing. Nothing inflammatory, nothing quotable. A kind of bureaucratic poetry.

When the floor opened, a journalist from Le Monde asked if the protocol had been challenged legally.

"The framework was reviewed and cleared by the national ethics board," the woman replied. "Participation remains optional."

A German correspondent asked whether any international observers had been invited.

"Not this year," she said, "but the process has been documented for comparative study."

Anna raised her hand.

"Have any candidates withdrawn?"

The spokesperson flipped a page.

"Four, out of four hundred and twenty-seven;" she said. "As of this morning."

She paused, then added:

"They'll be taking the exam in an alternative location under standard conditions."

Anna raised her hand again.

"Has the protocol made accommodations for candidates who may be menstruating?"

The spokesperson nodded without pause.

"Yes. On the day of the exam, female candidates are discreetly offered a standardized protection kit and optional undergarment, provided directly during the intake process. Nothing is assumed or required, it's entirely voluntary, and medically approved."

She said it like it had been discussed a hundred times. Which it probably had.

That seemed to settle the room. A few more questions followed, mostly procedural, soft. One about how long the candidates would remain under the protocol. One about media access. The spokesperson nodded, answered, shifted forward to signal an ending.

Twenty minutes after it started, the briefing dissolved. Reporters stood. Chairs scraped. No one lingered.

Outside, the late afternoon light was warm and even. The façade of the Sorbonne glowed pale gold, and the square was quiet but not still, café tables filling, bikes passing, voices rising and folding back into the city.

Anna and David didn't speak as they walked back to the hotel.

They'd agreed. Tomorrow, they'd be inside.

Chapter 2

They left the hotel just after seven. The air was cool, the sun still low enough to cast long shadows across the street. A few cafés were just opening, chairs being pulled out, umbrellas raised by half-asleep waiters. The bike lanes were already busy, students in backpacks, a man in a suit, a delivery rider with a tower of bread strapped to his back.

They walked the short distance to the Sorbonne in silence.

The square in front of the university was already full. A long queue of students stretched out from the entrance, quiet, dense, waiting. Most were in sweats or gym clothes, no bags, no watches. Some held small plastic folders, ID, nothing else. The mood was focused. Not tense exactly, but closed in.

Anna and David set up just off the main path. David unfolded the camera rig without speaking. It was second nature now, him watching the frame, her watching the people.

She approached a group of students who looked relaxed enough to talk. Two girls, one boy, all under twenty, probably lycée Henri-IV or Louis-le-Grand. They agreed to speak on camera, a little shy but curious.

"How do you feel about the new protocol?" Anna asked.

The boy shrugged, then smiled.

"It's... strange. But I understand. No one wants to fail because someone else cheated."

"You're okay with the nudity?"

One of the girls laughed.

"Not really. But we're all doing it. That makes it less weird."

Their English was precise, fluent, almost unnervingly polished.

"Where did you learn?" Anna asked.

"Online," said the other girl. "YouTube. American podcasts. School helps, but... not much."

Anna glanced at David behind the lens. He was focused, steady. They moved on.

Another student, tall, nervous, wearing a threadbare Sorbonne hoodie, told them he hadn't slept. That he hadn't told his parents about the nudity clause.

"My mother would lose her mind," he said, laughing. "But if I get into Normale Sup, she'll forgive me."

By 7:30, they were ushered into the courtyard by a staff member holding a clipboard. The press point was a corner tent with a folding table, a large urn of coffee, and two Ministry representatives who looked like they hadn't slept either.

"You'll be entering in ten minutes," one said. "Please follow us to the preparation room."

The room was on the ground floor, facing the inner courtyard. A high-ceilinged former seminar room with coat hooks along the walls and folding chairs in a line. They were handed beige paper wristbands and a pair of sandals each, white, soft-soled, institutional.

"You'll leave everything here," the woman said. "Step through the partition when ready."

Anna turned toward David just as he was glancing at her.

He didn't look away fast enough. And she didn't either.

Neither of them smiled. It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't anything as clear as that. Just, awareness. The strange, quiet reality of being two bodies about to become two naked observers, side by side, among strangers.

They undressed in silence. Folded their clothes neatly, placed them on the bench. There was no protocol for embarrassment. Only the ritual of doing it because it had been written down.

The partition led to a short corridor, then a narrow door with a thick frame. A man waited just inside. Naked, holding a clipboard. Skin pale, feet bare on the cold floor. He didn't seem uncomfortable. Just alert.

"You're the observers?" he asked. They nodded.

He handed them a folder each, paper, a pencil, nothing else.

They stepped into the amphitheater.

The room was immense, circular, tiered like a theatre. Wooden benches, old and worn smooth by generations of students. High windows along the dome let in soft northern light. There was no sound but footsteps and breath.

Anna looked up.

This was the Grand Amphithéâtre de la Sorbonne. The name floated up in her mind like something from a textbook. Pasteur had celebrated his jubilee here. The first UNESCO conference had opened here, in 1946. In May '68, the ceiling had shaken with chants and tear gas. Now it held silence.

The seats were filling slowly. Students entered in groups of ten, each wearing the same soft white sandals, expressionless. No phones, no pens, no watches, no sound.

David sat beside her at the edge of the hall. His pencil hovered over his page, unmoving. For now, there was nothing to write. Just the room, and what it held.

At precisely 8:30, one of the proctors crossed the room and placed a stack of envelopes on the central podium. The room shifted, not a murmur, not a gesture, just a collective intake of breath.

A bell rang. One sharp note.

The proctors moved silently through the aisles, delivering the exam packets, one by one. Each envelope was cream-colored, sealed, marked only with a candidate number. Nothing electronic. Nothing coded. Just paper.

At the front of the room, suspended from a temporary steel rigging, a large analog clock ticked audibly. Its face was oversized, deliberately visible from every seat. Since watches were forbidden, the clock would be their only measure of time.

The amphitheater had been rearranged for the session. Normally built to hold over a thousand spectators, it had easily absorbed the 427 candidates. Seats had been spaced out in a staggered grid, each fitted with a folding tablet arm for writing, and a white towel placed on the wood, a minimal concession to the absence of clothing.

Anna sat against the far wall with David, notebook on her knees. Around her, the sound of envelopes tearing open, pencils scratching. Silence, structured and full.

She watched the bodies. They weren't remarkable, not beautiful, not grotesque. Just human. Some thin, some soft, some tense. Backs straight, shoulders hunched, legs crossed or stretched forward. Scars, stretch marks, tan lines, hair. A few students folded their arms across their chests. Others leaned in completely, forgetful already.

The nudity was fading. Not gone, but dulled, like background noise you'd tuned out.

She felt it too. The initial tension in her own posture had dissolved. Her arms moved freely. Her breathing had slowed. At some point, the nakedness had become less a condition than a detail.

The only thing that mattered now was the task.

She dropped her pencil.

It clattered once against the tablet, bounced off her thigh, and landed just under the bench.

She leaned forward, casually, instinctively, to pick it up.

And in doing so, gave David, seated just to her right and slightly behind, a full and unfiltered view of her from behind: her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, and the precise geometry of her small, unthinking ass.

He made a sound, low, involuntary. Almost a cough, almost a growl. Somewhere between shock and need.

By the time she sat back up, he had his notepad pressed vertically against his lap. Too quickly. Too precisely.

His face was flushed. He looked at the clock like it had accused him of something.

She glanced at him. Then at the notebook. Then back at his face.

A pause.

She gave him a look, not mockery, not scolding. Something quieter. A half-smile. Indulgent. Almost tender. With just enough promise in it to make him shift again on the bench.

And then, just as quickly, they were still.

The room carried on without noticing. The pencils scratched. The clock ticked.

Nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

Time didn't pass. It swelled.

The room was so quiet it almost felt underwater. The only sounds were the dry slide of pencil on paper, the distant creak of benches, an occasional throat being cleared with exaggerated care.

Anna had stopped taking notes. She held the pencil like a prop now, resting it lightly on her thigh, still conscious, just barely, of the strange fact of her skin touching wood.

There was no air conditioning. The temperature rose slowly, evenly, as if the breath of four hundred people was enough to warm the stone. It wasn't unbearable. But it was intimate. She could smell the room, not unpleasant, but present. Warm skin, paper, a trace of dust from the windowsills.

On the third row, a boy scratched his side absentmindedly, over and over. Another had his eyes closed, lips moving, reciting silently before answering. One girl chewed her pencil until the paint flaked onto her fingers. Everyone had their rituals.

A few fidgeted, but most were still. Fully focused. Or emptied out.

One girl adjusted her towel with the mechanical grace of someone who had done it five times already and knew no one was watching. Another candidate rested her head for a few seconds on her forearm, eyes open. Not tired, just... paused.

The nudity had become irrelevant. Not invisible, but quiet. No one hid. No one flaunted. It was like the room had decided, all at once, that this was neutral territory.

Anna felt it too. The absence of fabric no longer registered. Her back itched faintly where she leaned against the wood, but it didn't matter. Her body existed, but distantly, like furniture.

Somewhere behind her, a sandal squeaked against the floor. Someone coughed into their elbow. A pencil rolled. A sigh, almost theatrical, rose and disappeared into the dome.

Time continued. Not forward. Just outward.

She looked at the clock again. Forty minutes left.

And still, nobody had moved in or out. Nobody had cried, or panicked, or broken.

This room was a machine. Warm, naked, breathing.

And working.

With twenty minutes left on the clock, a proctor came to them quietly and nodded.

Anna glanced at David. They both stood.

They left the amphitheater in silence, the way you exit a church during a sermon, careful not to disrupt whatever force was holding the room together.

Back through the corridor, back into the partitioned room where their clothes waited neatly folded. They dressed without speaking.

Outside, the air felt sharper, almost cold against their skin, now clothed again. It took a moment to readjust to the sound of shoes, the weight of fabric.

The courtyard was beginning to stir. Press badges, microphones, small cameras being reassembled. But not many. Fewer than expected.

Most journalists hadn't entered the exam hall. A few had arrived for the press briefing, taken some footage of the line, and left. One British reporter had refused outright, "Not going to strip for a segment, thanks." Another had quietly disappeared after the protocol briefing.

The doors opened at 10:45.

The students came out slowly. Dressed again, but a little off, shirts wrinkled, hair flattened, socks mismatched. Some held their envelopes like they weren't sure what to do with them. Nobody talked much at first. A few stretched their arms. One guy lit a cigarette with a hand that shook a little.

Anna and David were already in place, just to the side of the entrance. Two other reporters stood nearby, cameras out. Waiting.

But the first wave of students didn't stop. They walked past the press like they didn't see them. Or didn't want to. One girl looked directly at a journalist holding a mic and said:

"Were you in there?"

No answer.

She kept walking.

Then a group passed near Anna. A boy slowed down. Looked at her.

"You came in, right?"

She nodded.

"We both did."

He tilted his head. Not quite a smile.

"Okay."

That's all it took.

Another student came over. Then two more. David didn't need to call anyone, they just turned toward him, like that was the direction gravity pointed.

The questions weren't formal. Anna didn't open her notebook right away. She just asked,

"How was it?"

Shrugs. Tired looks.

"Weird."

"Long."

"Felt like being underwater."

Someone muttered,

"I forgot I was naked until the end."

One girl laughed at that, too loud, then covered her mouth.

A guy in a tracksuit jacket, clearly put back on in a hurry, leaned in.

"Honestly, it was fine. I thought it would be worse."

Another voice behind him:

"I was expecting some kind of breakdown. But no. Just... silence."

A reporter from a national channel stepped closer.

"Can I ask?"

Nobody answered. Someone turned their back. Someone else moved closer to Anna.

It was subtle, but it was clear. They'd talk to those who had been inside. Not the rest.

David filmed. Quiet, steady. Anna listened more than she spoke. It wasn't the time for angles.

Then, almost as the group started to thin, someone said:

"There's a thing tonight."

"A what?"

"I don't know. Just... some people. Drinks. Apartment near here."

She looked at David. He gave her nothing.

Then someone else added,

"You should come. I mean, you were in there."

Anna nodded.

"Sure."

That was it.

No details. Just a direction.

Chapter 3

Back at the hotel, the silence was different. Lighter, maybe. The kind that follows something finished, not feared.

Their flight was the next evening. They had time. Enough, anyway.

David dropped his bag in his room, crossed the hall to Anna's.

"We're going, right?"

She looked up from her bed, still barefoot, her press badge half-buried in a pile of laundry.

"We'd regret it if we didn't."

They stopped at a corner store. Picked two bottles of Bordeaux. Ten euros each. David stared at the price.

"I don't understand this country," he said.

"It's the one thing they take seriously," Anna replied.

The apartment was smaller than it looked from the street, warm, slanted ceiling, floor cushions everywhere, books stacked in open shelves and half-empty wine bottles on windowsills. Low lights, flickering candles, jazz humming in and out of tune on an old record player.

They stepped inside with two bottles. No one blinked at their clothes. But everyone else was already naked.

The girl who'd opened the door, completely at ease, took the wine and handed them each a glass.

"There's a coat rack," she said. "Or not."

Anna looked at David. They didn't speak. They moved to the hallway, folded their clothes, set them down like belongings left at a shore. Then stepped back in.

No one looked twice.

A group sat cross-legged near the radiator, laughing quietly. Anna and David settled nearby, on a rug still warm from someone else's skin. A guy leaned over to pour them both a refill.

His torso was wiry, a faint line of hair running down his stomach, and a long, pale scar across his ribs.

David must have glanced. The guy caught it and said:

"Scooter crash. Left spleen on the asphalt."

He raised his glass, casual.

"Now it's just me and the scar. Kind of love it, though. Makes you visible."

The sentence hung a little longer than expected. Then someone behind them clapped offbeat, and the record switched sides.

The music changed, a sharp piano, upbeat swing. Half the room groaned.

"Fine. We're dancing."

It wasn't sexy. Not even graceful. But people stood. Hands in the air. Hips loose. Someone knocked over a bottle cap and slipped laughing into a cushion. Anna stood too. David gave her a look: really?

She grabbed his hand.

"No escape."

They moved, not in rhythm, not really dancing, more like giving up control. It felt stupid and light and free.

The music broke in the middle of a sax solo. The dancer closest to the player bent down and flipped it to silence.

Everyone dropped back into their spots, catching breath, giggling, brushing shoulders.

Someone passed a bowl of cherries. Another uncorked something darker.

Anna was still warm, breath shallow. She sipped slowly. Her legs touched David's. Skin to skin.

She shifted slightly to pick up her glass and noticed, across from her, a girl folding her legs beneath her. The skin of her thigh exposed a tattoo. Tiny. Just above the knee: Ctrl + Z.

Anna smiled without thinking. The girl saw her gaze and lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeah," she said. "It's stupid. And I love it."

"You ever think of removing it?"

"Never. It's like a warning label. For myself."

Anna nodded.

"Undo culture."

The girl winked and turned away.

The lights dimmed slightly, or maybe the candles burned lower. The music came back, something slower, melodic, almost unsteady. A voice like velvet and smoke.

No one said anything.

Anna stood. Quiet this time.

David didn't hesitate.

They met near the window. Her hands on his shoulders. His hands just above her waist.

They didn't move at first, just swayed.

The air between them tightened. The warmth of his skin under her fingers. The brush of her hip against his.

She leaned her forehead to his chest.

They danced. Slow. Not entirely in time with the music, but in sync with each other. Breathing matched. Eyes closed. Her body fully against his now.

He pressed his mouth to her temple. She lifted her chin slightly.

When the song faded, the silence stayed.

And then:

"Okay," someone announced. "Let's address the real question."

Heads turned.

"Why is it so much worse to wear just socks than to be totally naked?"

Groans, protests, mock horror.

"Because socks are trying too hard."

"Because your feet are dressed and your soul's confused."

"Because it screams, I was halfway out the door and forgot shame."

Anna, still wrapped in David's arms, said:

"The sock paradox. Honestly deserves peer review."

David grinned, without letting go.

"But no footnotes allowed."

That cracked the room. Someone choked on their wine. Someone else nearly fell off the couch laughing.

The spell broke, gently.

Anna and David sat again, this time on a floor cushion, closer. He refilled her glass. She leaned into him without thinking. Their skin touched in more places now.

They asked someone what their major was. Then another. The answers looped into questions about the test. About language. About why being naked with strangers had started to feel... natural.

"It's like when you stop posing for a photo and just breathe."

"Or when silence stops being awkward."

Anna tilted her glass.

"Or when you stop interviewing and just listen."

David looked at her. Not amused, moved.

They didn't need to stay longer.

They dressed slowly, this time aware of what each layer did. Not hiding. Just transitioning. Re-wrapping.

They said quiet goodbyes. The girl with the olives hugged them both.

Then they stepped into the Paris night.

They didn't speak on the way back.

The night had thinned, but Paris was still lit, faintly festive, as if the city couldn't quite let go of the season. A few last garlands blinked above doorways. A florist's stand, closed but illuminated, showed frosted stems behind the glass.

Anna and David walked side by side, their coats open, their fingers brushing once... then again. Eventually, he took her hand. She didn't look at him. Just tightened her grip.

The Latin Quarter was quiet. A delivery van hummed down the next street. They passed a boulangerie setting out baskets for morning bread. Everything felt temporary, suspended, like the whole city had paused, just for them.

At the hotel, she didn't stop. She opened the door to her room, stepped inside, turned once, and waited.

He followed.

They didn't talk.

Anna unfastened her coat, dropped it on the chair. David watched her move. She stepped closer and pulled his collar gently, undoing the top button of his shirt. Then the next. He shrugged it off.

Her hands slid along his skin like she was still discovering him. Not hesitating, savoring.

He pulled her sweater up, slow. She raised her arms. It slipped free. Underneath, no bra. Just her, bare, expectant.

She kissed him, deep and unhurried. He pressed back harder. Their bodies folded into each other.

She reached down and unbuckled his belt, fingers deft. His pants fell. He kicked them aside.

She stepped back. Unzipped her skirt. Let it fall to the floor.

She stood before him in nothing but stockings. Slowly, she rolled them down, first one, then the other.

He didn't speak. He was already hard.

She came to him, pressed her body to his. Skin against skin. She kissed his neck, his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder.

"Lie down," she whispered.

He obeyed.

She straddled him, ran her hands down his chest. Then lower. Took him in her hand, teased him, eyes locked on his. Then she leaned down and took him in her mouth, slowly, deeply, letting him fill her, her lips warm, wet, patient.

He groaned. His hand slid to her hair, but didn't push. She set the pace.

When she stopped, he was shaking. She climbed back up, kissed him again.

He rolled her onto her back, kissed her throat, her breasts, circled her nipples with his tongue. She arched. Moaned.

His hand slid between her thighs. She was soaked.

"Now," she said, voice thick.

"I need you."

He slid into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her mouth fall open, her legs wrap around him, her breath stutter in her chest.

They moved in rhythm, hard, then slow, then hard again.

He pinned her wrists above her head, kissed her while he thrust deeper. She broke the kiss with a cry, her body tightening.

"Don't stop."

He didn't.

She came hard, shuddering under him, fingernails dragging down his back.

He came just after, deep inside her, groaning low, mouth at her throat.

They stayed like that. Breathing. Pressed together. Skin damp, sheets tangled.

He rolled beside her, pulled her close. She draped her leg over him.

Outside, Paris was beginning to turn pale.

Inside, nothing had changed.

And everything had.

Six months later

Paris again. January.

They were back, this time as newlyweds. A short honeymoon, no fanfare. Just the two of them.

The city wore winter like silk. Cold but luminous. Strings of lights still glowed over the Champs-Élysées. The façades along Avenue Montaigne shimmered under pale blue bulbs, each boutique window a quiet performance, Dior, Chanel, Saint Laurent, all staged in snow-colored minimalism.

They walked hand in hand. No rush. Coffee cups steaming in gloves. David wore a scarf she had bought him the day before, deep navy with a soft fringe.

They wandered without aim. Along the Seine. Through Palais-Royal. Into a courtyard they didn't know the name of.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.

That night, back in their rented apartment, he took her hand and kissed it. Slowly.

"Still the best assignment of my life."

She smiled.

Then kissed him back.