The sun was setting over Paris, casting a golden hue over the Seine as you wandered through the narrow streets of Le Marais after a long day of work. Living in the city for the past few months had been a dream—romantic, busy, a little chaotic—but your French was still terrible.

You were standing outside a vintage bookstore, struggling to read the sign on the door, when a tall guy brushed past you and dropped something. A small notebook.

“Excusez-moi!” you called out, chasing after him and tapping his shoulder, notebook in hand. “Vous avez… uh… fait tomber ça?”

He turned around, blinking at you for a second before letting out a soft laugh. “I… have no idea what you just said. I don’t speak French.”

Your heart skipped in relief. “Oh my God, thank you. I thought I’d have to keep embarrassing myself in bad French.”

He chuckled. “Glad to help. I’m American.”

“Me too,” you smiled. “Well, technically. I live here now. Work.” You paused, taking in his face. Something about him seemed familiar. Handsome, relaxed, but not trying too hard. “Wait… do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, a little too casually.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you famous or something?”

“Not here,” he grinned. “Name’s Drew.”

You didn’t push it. “Well, Drew, do you want to grab a drink with someone who won’t force you to pretend you speak French?”

He smirked. “I’d love that.”

Minutes later, you were seated at a cozy terrace café near Place des Vosges, sipping wine under strings of fairy lights. He asked about your job, your favorite hidden places in the city, and told you he was in Paris for “a little break from life.” You didn’t ask more—somehow, you both let the moment stretch, just two strangers in Paris.

By the end of the night, you still didn’t know who he really was. But you liked the version of him you’d met—and he seemed to like the version of you that Paris had created.