Petrichor

PETRICHOR
/ˈpɛtrʌɪkɔː/
a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
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He paused, and I looked up to see confusion swept over his features, a furrow in his brow and pursed lips. I chuckled, grabbing the book off of him. The next line was in French.

"A moi. L'histoire d'une de mes folies," I said without difficulty.

"Okay, so you can speak French perfectly, but do you even know what you said," he said.

"Yes. That meant: To me. The story of one of my follies, or more colloquially put: foolish acts, mistakes," I explained and he just looked down at me with disbelief as I gave him back the book.

"I may underestimate you Luce, I guess that is a 'folies' of mine," he said, pronouncing the word wrong. I laughed at him but he continued, "no, you are exceptional," he said and glanced back at the page. "Exceptional indeed, " he repeated.

I was unsure of the reason why my body responded to his compliment, but I felt my cheeks flush and I knew that crimson had dawned on them.