paris
The first thing you thought when you saw the Eiffel Tower was that your legs were going to fall off.
The second thing you thought was that you were going to cry.
And the third was a familiar voice screaming “THERE SHE IS!”.
You barely had time to lift your head before you heard the voice cutting through the noise of the finish line.
Your entire body seemed to forget how exhausted it was.
You looked up.
And there he was.
George.
Standing just beyond the barriers still looking slightly out of place amongst the sea of cyclists support crews and spectators. He was dressed casually sunglasses pushed into his hair one hand holding a ridiculous bouquet of flowers and the other carrying a large paper bag that you could already smell from several metres away.
Pastries
Of course.
Your boyfriend had flown from Monza to Paris during a race weekend just to watch you finish a cycling competition you had spent months nervously preparing for.
Your first one.
London to Paris.
You had told him you were terrified when you signed up.
You had told him you weren’t even sure you’d make it to the end.
And George had simply smiled kissed your forehead and said
“Then we’ll worry about the finish line when you get there.”
Now as you finally crossed it he was there.
Waiting for you.
Your eyes immediately filled with tears.
“Oh my God” you whispered.
Your teammate beside you laughed breathlessly.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
“That’s George Russell?”
Your teammate snorted.
“You’re crying.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’ve been cycling for two days!”
“You’re crying because your Formula One boyfriend brought you flowers.”
You wiped hurriedly underneath your eyes.
“Shut up.”
But you were smiling.
You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
George’s smile grew the moment he saw you.
He stepped around the barrier completely ignoring the fact that you were sweaty exhausted covered in road dust and probably looked like you hadn’t seen a shower in approximately a century.
He opened his arms and you practically fell into them.
“There she is” he murmured.
You buried your face against his chest.
“You came.”
His arms tightened around you.
“Of course I came darling.”
“You had a race.”
“I know.”
“You flew here anyway.”
“I know.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
You laughed into his shirt.
George kissed the top of your head.
“I wasn’t missing this.”
You pulled back enough to look at him.
He was smiling at you in that soft way he rarely did around anyone else.
“You finished” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
“I finished.”
“I knew you would.”
“I didn’t.”
“I did.”
Your lip wobbled.
“Don’t make me cry again.”
“I’d never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Maybe a little but only happy tears”
You laughed and George leaned down to kiss your forehead.
Then he held out the flowers.
“These are for you.”
You stared at the enormous bouquet.
“George.”
“Don’t worry. They’re not too heavy.”
“You bought me flowers?”
“You cycled from London to Paris.”
“Yes, but—”
“I thought flowers were the least I could do.”
You looked at him for a moment.
Then at the flowers.
Then back at him.
“They’re beautiful.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Did you just say you know?”
“Yes.”
“Cocky.”
“I have excellent taste.”
“You have questionable taste. You’re dating me.”
“Exactly why I have excellent taste”
You laughed again and he kissed your cheek.
Then he lifted the paper bag.
“And pastries.”
Your eyes widened.
“You brought pastries?”
“For you and your teammates.”
You stared at him.
“You remembered their names?”
“Of course.”
George began pulling boxes from the bag.
“Pain au chocolat for Sophie. Almond croissant for Maya. Plain croissant for Ellie because apparently she’s ‘weird about fillings.’”
Your teammates immediately erupted.
“HE REMEMBERED?”
“George!”
“You’re the best!”
“Why can’t my boyfriend be like this?”
George looked mildly embarrassed as everyone descended upon the pastries.
You just stood there watching him.
Your boyfriend.
Who had flown across the Channel after a race weekend.
Who had remembered your teammates’ favourite pastries.
Who had brought flowers.
Who was standing there in Paris waiting for you at the end of something that had terrified you for months.
And suddenly your exhaustion didn’t matter anymore.
You stepped closer.
George looked down at you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring baby”
“I know.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You all right?”
You nodded.
You wrapped your arms around his waist again.
“I just love you.”
His expression softened instantly.
“I love you darling”
He kissed your forehead.
Then your nose.
Then your cheek.
You giggled.
“George.”
“What?”
“People are watching.”
“Let them.”
He kissed you again.
This time properly.
Soft and sweet and lingering enough to make your stomach flutter.
When he pulled away he rested his forehead against yours.
“You did brilliantly.”
Your eyes softened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I nearly quit twice.”
“I complained the entire second day.”
“I said I hated cycling.”
“You said you hated cycling approximately forty-seven times.”
You laughed.
“And yet you still came.”
“Of course I did.”
He brushed a stray piece of hair away from your face.
“You were nervous about this for months I wanted you to look up at the finish line and see someone who believed in you.”
Your heart squeezed.
“You’re too good to me.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“I just love you.”
And that was the problem.
Because you loved him too.
More than you knew how to explain.
Later that night after everyone had showered and changed your little group wandered through Paris.
George insisted on carrying your bag.
You protested.
“George I can carry it.”
“Nopeeee”
“I’ve just cycled hundreds of kilometres. I think I can carry a handbag.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I have arms.”
You stared at him.
“That’s your argument?”
“Yes.”
“Brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
He reached for your hand.
You intertwined your fingers with his.
You walked slowly through the streets occasionally stopping for photographs laughing over absolutely nothing.
And every few minutes george would look at you.
Just look.
As though he couldn’t quite believe you were there.
At one point you caught him staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
“I like looking at you.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You’re disgustingly romantic.”
“I know.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Do you remember when I told you I didn’t think I’d be able to do it?”
“Yes.”
“I really thought I wouldn’t.”
George stopped walking.
You turned around
He was looking at you seriously now.
“You know what I thought when you told me?”
“What?”
“That you’d do it anyway.”
Your heart melted.
“Why?”
“Because you always do.”
You stared at him.
“George…”
He smiled.
“Come on.”
He tugged gently on your hand.
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
The Eiffel Tower came into view just as the sun began to rise.
You stopped dead.
“Oh my God.”
George smiled.
“I thought you might like it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“So are you.”
You groaned.
“Oh that’s terrible.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“That was your best one?”
“Probably.”
You laughed and leaned against him.
He slipped an arm around your shoulders.
For a few moments neither of you said anything.
You simply stood there beneath the Eiffel Tower surrounded by people and lights and the quiet hum of Paris around you.
Then George pulled out his phone.
“Come here.”
“What?”
“Picture.”
“You want a picture?”
“Yes.”
“You hate pictures.”
“I don’t hate pictures.”
“You hate taking pictures.”
“I hate taking bad pictures.”
You laughed.
“George you’re so vain.”
“I prefer ‘photographically discerning.’”
“That’s worse.”
He positioned you beneath the tower.
Then he stepped beside you.
You looked up at him.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You should hold the flowers.”
He took the bouquet.
You stood on your tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
He snapped the picture.
You immediately frowned.
“Let me see.”
He showed you.
You stared at the screen.
It was perfect.
You were still glowing from the finish, your hair messy from the wind, his arm wrapped around your waist.
The Eiffel Tower rose behind you.
And George was looking at you instead of the camera.
You smiled.
“You weren’t even looking at the camera.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because I was looking at you.”
You stared at him.
“George.”
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
He smiled.
“Keep the picture.”
“I will.”
You leaned against his shoulder.
And suddenly the thought came.
Quietly.
Unexpectedly.
Completely naturally.
I’m going to marry this man.
Not because he was George Russell.
Not because he was a Formula One driver.
Not because he’d flown to Paris or bought you flowers or remembered everyone’s favourite pastries.
But because this was him.
This was the man who showed up.
The man who listened.
The man who remembered tiny things.
The man who believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself.
The man who would cross borders and rearrange race weekends and wake up ridiculously early just to make sure you knew he was proud of you.
You looked down at your intertwined hands.
Then at him.
George noticed.
“What are you thinking about?”
You smiled.
“Nothing.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“That’s never true.”
You shook your head.
“Just you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
He squeezed your hand.
“The best things.”
He smiled.
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
The Eiffel Tower glittered above you.
Your legs ached.
Your body was exhausted.
You were probably going to sleep for twelve hours.
But you felt happier than you had in months.
George kissed your hair.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m really proud of you.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
You looked up at him.
“And what?”
“I want you to say it.”
You laughed.
“You’re proud of me.”
“Very.”
You kissed his cheek.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Always.”
You smiled and beneath the lights of Paris with his hand warm around yours and the flowers tucked safely against your side you thought that maybe the finish line hadn’t actually been the end of anything.
Maybe it had been the beginning.
Because someday years from now you knew you’d look back at this exact photograph.
You’d remember the aching legs.
The pastries.
The flowers.
The Eiffel Tower.
And the way George had looked at you like you were the only person in the entire city.
And you’d think:
That was the day you knew.
That was the day you knew he was the man you were going to marry.
