On parle francais ici

"Deal," you say, and immediately regret every choice that led you here.

Claire claps her hands together, delighted, like you've just agreed to something far more binding than a language lesson. "Okay. Rules. No English unless you're actually stuck, and I get to laugh at you when you mess up."

"That's not really a rule, that's just going to happen regardless."

"Exactly. Glad we're on the same page." She sits down across from you, chin propped on her hand, and switches without warning. "Alors. Dis-moi ce que tu as prévu pour la journée."

You blink. Process. "Uh, j'ai prévu... de rester ici? Avec toi? Et parfois, je vais aller au centre-ville." It comes out more like a question than you intended, and you're fairly sure the grammar is somewhere between shaky and criminal.

"Not bad," she says, switching back just long enough to be encouraging. "A little formal, but not bad. Okay, try this: comment tu trouves mes crêpes?"

"Tes pancakes," you correct, because you're fairly sure that's what she made, and she throws a balled-up napkin at your head.

"Crêpes, John. Have some respect." Back to French. "Alors? Tu les aimes?"

"Elles sont... très bonnes," you manage, and then, testing your luck, "Meilleures que mon français, en tout cas."

That earns you an actual laugh, warm and unguarded. "Okay, that one was almost charming. See? You're not hopeless." She tilts her head, studying you with open amusement.

"And you learned swiss french, right? Not french french?"

"You know, both swiss french and canadian french are somewhat different form classic french." She says it like she's genuinely relishing the prospect, a warm smile on her face, her dark brown hair cascading along her body. "Quick, what do you call lunch?"

"Dîner."

"See, that's already wrong. Well, not wrong, just Swiss. Here, dîner is dinner. Lunch is dîner where you learned it, but it's just lunch, plain old lunch, for me." She's grinning now, fully enjoying herself. "What's ninety?"

"Nonante."

"Quatre-vingt-dix," she counters immediately, delighted. "Or, if I'm feeling French-Canadian about it, I'd just say ninety in English and move on with my life, but don't tell anyone I said that."

"This feels like a trap."

"It's absolutely a trap. Keep going, though I like watching you concentrate. You get this little furrow." She reaches over, unthinking, and smooths a finger briefly between your eyebrows before seeming to catch herself and pulling back, a faint flush rising in her cheeks that she covers by reaching for her coffee. Your eyes wonder down to her chest, she is not curvy, but no one would call her flat. Concentrate, John. "Anyway. Continue. Impress me."

You should probably let the moment pass. You don't, quite. "Tu es... très patiente," you try instead, slower this time, more deliberate, "avec un élève aussi mauvais."

Something shifts in her expression, softer, quieter, like she wasn't expecting you to actually try for something that sounded less like a textbook exercise and more like you meant it. "Pas si mauvais que ça," she says, quiet now too, and there's a beat where neither of you says anything at all, the kitchen very still around you, the morning light doing something unfair to the color of her eyes.

"See," she adds eventually, breaking it with a small laugh that's not quite as steady as her others, "French really does make everything sound better. Even you, mangling half the vocabulary."

"Is that the secret? Just, say things in French and they automatically sound smoother?"

"Apparently." She's not quite meeting your eyes now, tracing the rim of her mug instead, and you notice, with some satisfaction, that you're not the only one a little thrown by how this conversation has drifted. "It's a dangerous language, honestly. People warn you about French guys for a reason."

"I'm not French. I'm barely anything, language-wise."

"You're something," she says, and then seems to hear how that sounded, because she laughs again, a little too quickly, and stands to take your empty plate before you can push your luck any further, or she can. And you can't help imagening how she would sound with your dick in her mouth. "Okay. Lesson over before one of us says something we can't blame on bad vocabulary."

The kitchen feels smaller than it did twenty minutes ago, in a way you don't entirely trust yourself to examine too closely. You glance at the clock, grateful, for once, for a reasonable excuse. "I should actually head to campus today. Sort out my course registration before it turns into a nightmare."

"Very responsible of you." She says it lightly, but there's something almost like reluctance in it, a beat too long before she turns back to the sink. "Go. Be an adult. I'll be here, mourning my sock drawer."

"À plus tard," you offer, testing it, and her smile when she glances back over her shoulder is answer enough that you got it right.

"À plus, John."