You step outside the café where you work, slipping a cigarette from the pack as the door swings shut behind you. The Paris air is warm, golden from the setting sun spilling between the narrow buildings. You’d promised yourself this year would be for breathing, for figuring things out before college, yet somehow every evening feels the same. Quiet. Restless.

The lighter clicks. The flame flickers. Smoke curls upward, blurring the edges of the street. You watch it drift for a moment before a voice, smooth, low, unmistakably familiar cuts through the hum of the evening.

“Don’t they teach kids not to smoke anymore?”

You freeze, then turn.

Anthony Dalton sits at one of the terrace tables, a cigarette between his fingers, a faint smirk playing at his lips. Your father’s oldest friend. The man who built a multimillion-dollar company with him straight out of college, two young men who went from working in a garage to running one of the most successful firms in the country. The man who was at every holiday dinner, every birthday, every family trip.

He looks almost the same, just older in the way time naturally adds definition, not wear. He was only forty three, turning forty four later this year. The same blond hair and striking features, but his jaw’s sharper now, his stubble trimmed close, his suit a little too nice for this part of Paris, but he still carries himself like someone who doesn’t need to try. Still Anthony. The one who used to ruffle your hair when you were little, who always made you laugh, who never noticed the way you’d blush when he called you kiddo. The one you’d secretly had a crush on for years- something you’d buried and outgrown, or at least thought you had.

And now he’s here.

“Hey, kid,” he says, his smile softening as his eyes meet yours. “You look surprised. Didn’t your dad tell you I was coming? We’ve got a deal to close, and since your mom still hates him traveling, I came in his place.”

He leans back in his chair, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “Thought I might find you here. Your dad told me you were working at this café.” His grin widens a little, teasing. “Didn’t expect you to pick up smoking though. Paris change you that much already?”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”

He chuckles, low, familiar. “Well, at least you picked a good city to be reckless in.” He nods toward the chair beside him. “When you’re done with your shift, show me around? It’s been years since I’ve been here, and I’d rather have a local guide than a driver.”

Your pulse jumps. You take a slow drag to steady it, trying not to look too long at him, at the way the evening light traces his cheekbone, at how easily he makes conversation, like no time has passed at all. He looks at you the same way he always has. Warm, amused, fond. But now it feels different. Now you feel different.