The Marseille breeze rolled in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of lavender and ocean salt. The city hummed below them — soft music from a violinist at the harbor, distant laughter from a rooftop bar, a motorcycle growling somewhere in the hills. But up here, it was quiet. Still.
Talia stood barefoot by the railing, a glass of wine in her hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. The moon hung low and full, golden over the water. Her curls were loose, wild, dancing around her face in the wind. Ezra leaned against the doorframe, watching her like she was something sacred.
"You keep looking at me like you've never seen me before," she said without turning.
He chuckled under his breath. "That's because every time I do, you're someone new."
She glanced back at him, her eyes soft but curious. "Is that a good thing?"
Ezra walked over slowly, slipping beside her at the railing. "It's the best thing."
They stood there in silence for a long time. Not awkward silence, but the kind that wraps around two people who don't need to fill the air with anything. Marseille glowed beneath them, but their world was only this small balcony, this moon, this moment.
Talia finally spoke. "Do you ever wonder if we'd be here if you hadn't walked away back then?"
Ezra tilted his head. "You mean the breakup?"
"Yeah."
"I think about it sometimes," he admitted. "Not because I wish it hadn't happened. But because maybe we needed it."
She glanced at him, eyebrows raised.
"We were two broken people trying to patch each other's holes," he said. "And sometimes when you do that, you build something that leaks."
Talia gave a small laugh. "That's a very Ezra metaphor."
"I'm full of them," he smiled. "But seriously — back then, I wasn't ready to show up fully. And you were still trying to prove to yourself that needing someone didn't make you weak."
She blinked. "Oof. That's uncomfortably accurate."
Ezra looked out at the water. "But now? Now we choose each other. Not because we're scared or lonely, but because we're finally whole enough to make space for someone else."
Talia felt something warm bloom in her chest — a mix of awe, fear, and love. Real, terrifying love.
"I used to think love was fire," she said. "All-consuming. Messy. Fast."
Ezra looked at her.
"But now… I think it's like this. The quiet kind. The kind that stays, even after the party ends."
He reached for her hand. "It's still fire. Just the kind that keeps you warm."
She leaned into him, their foreheads touching. The wind tugged at them both, but they stood firm.
"I love you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Ezra blinked, his eyes suddenly glassy. He hadn't heard those words from her in so long — not like this. Not in this stillness.
"I love you too," he breathed.
They kissed, slow and unhurried, like two people finally learning the rhythm of each other's hearts. No rush. No fear. Just truth.
Later, they lay tangled in each other on the small couch, a blanket draped over them, the glass of wine forgotten on the coffee table. Talia rested her head on Ezra's chest, tracing invisible lines along his collarbone.
"I want to write again," she said suddenly.
Ezra tilted his head. "You haven't stopped."
"Not for real. I mean… I want to write something big. A book maybe. About people. About us. About love that breaks and still returns."
He looked at her, eyes wide. "Talia, you'd be brilliant."
She laughed. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll crash and burn."
"Then I'll bring marshmallows."
She shoved him lightly, and he pulled her closer.
They fell asleep like that, the moon still watching, the city still alive below. But up here, love lingered in the stillness — not rushed, not uncertain, just quietly unfolding.
And for the first time in years, neither of them was running.
They were exactly where they were meant to be.