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Merlin had come to Étretat for one reason only: to escape the endless cycle of work, responsibility, and—okay, mostly work. His friend Julien had insisted he join a summer trip to Normandy, claiming it would be good for the soul.
Merlin wasn’t entirely convinced, but he couldn’t say no to the idea of endless baguettes and a break from his usually dull routine.
The journey had been surprisingly nice. Étretat, with its towering cliffs and quaint cafés, was exactly what he needed. The fresh sea breeze was a welcome change from the stuffy London air, and the only thing heavier than the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was the pressure of trying to understand rapid-fire French conversations.
“We’re going to meet some of my friends,” Julien said as they wandered into a café. "Just follow my lead, alright? You’re so close to speaking fluent French!"
Merlin had learned just enough French to nod and say things like “Merci” and “C’est la vie” with the right amount of confidence to fool anyone into thinking he wasn’t utterly lost. So when Julien led him into the bustling café, Merlin did the only thing he could think of—he tried not to get trampled by the crowd.
Soon enough, the French ritual of greeting everyone with two cheek kisses began. It was like a choreographed dance: one person leans left, the other leans right, and somewhere along the way, the balance of personal space is lost. Merlin had been to a few French gatherings before, and he’d survived these cheek kisses—but today, it felt like an Olympic sport. There were so many people, all bumping into each other, kissing like it was a competitive event, and Merlin wasn’t sure who to greet first.
And then, he was suddenly face-to-face with her.
In the middle of the confusion, a woman stood before him, her eyes bright with curiosity. She was looking at him, but he barely noticed beyond the usual “bonjour, right cheek kiss, left cheek kiss, next.” The French greeting ritual was like a game of leapfrog—there was no time for anything but the basics. He flashed her a quick “Bonjour!” and went in for the cheek kiss.
Except... the crowd was absolutely insane. People were jostling all around them, and just as Merlin leaned in, someone bumped into her. She instinctively turned her head slightly—right toward his lips.
Merlin was already halfway there. And just like that, his lips met hers.
Merlin froze. His entire body went stiff. What just happened? His brain was far behind the kiss, still processing the fact that he had just planted one squarely on a stranger’s lips. There was no time for recovery, just the sharp realization that he had committed a complete social crime. He quickly jerked back, his face as red as a lobster.
“I’m so sorry!” he blurted out, a little too loudly. “I didn’t mean to—oh my god, I really didn’t mean to—”
She blinked at him, her face a mixture of surprise and mild amusement. "It’s fine," she said, her voice perfectly calm, like he hadn’t just committed an international incident. "Really, no harm done."
“Oh god,” Merlin muttered, clearly mortified, “I just… I don’t know what happened.”
“Just a classic case of mistaken geography,” she said lightly. “Happens all the time.”
He stared at her, processing her words. "Right. Geography. Yes, that's exactly what happened." Merlin awkwardly cleared his throat. “I thought you were French. I mean, everyone here is French!”
She raised an eyebrow, as if she was holding back a laugh. “I can speak French... but I'm actually English. I am from London."
Merlin’s eyes widened. “Wait, really? I—”
Before he could continue making a fool of himself, she smirked and added, “I think you should probably work on your technique for next time.”
His brain short-circuited. “Oh, absolutely,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I’ll make a note. In my head. To never do that again.”
For the rest of the evening, Merlin did his best to act like nothing had happened, but it was impossible. Every time his eyes flicked to her across the table, the incident replayed in his mind like an embarrassing loop of social failure. The crowd was loud, the wine was flowing, and Merlin’s internal cringe meter was off the charts. He tried to focus on other conversations, but whenever Morgana—he had finally caught her name—spoke, his thoughts immediately drifted back to the kiss.
Julien kept talking about some random French movie, but Merlin’s mind kept wondering whether it was possible to have an accidental kiss erased from existence by sheer force of will. Spoiler: It wasn’t.
At one point, Morgana’s eyes met his, and Merlin’s heart did a nervous little flip. But she only grinned, and the next time they exchanged a glance, she shot him a look that said, yep, I remember. Merlin nearly choked on his drink.
As the evening came to a close and people started heading out, Morgana passed by him, pausing just long enough to say with a mischievous grin, “Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll aim for the cheek.”
Merlin swallowed hard, feeling like a deer in the headlights. “Next time?” he squeaked. “There’s definitely not going to be a next time!”
“Oh, I think there might be,” she teased, giving him a wink before disappearing into the crowd.
Merlin stood there, utterly flummoxed, trying to process everything. The kiss had been a mess, a total accident, but it left him with a strange sense of… something. Embarrassment, yes, but also the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. If only he didn’t have to spend the rest of the trip trying to avoid further "geography mistakes."