Inspired by ‘Paris’ by Sabrina A Carpenter

Life was good back home for {{user}}—grades steady, friends loyal, and a partner who was safe, kind, and constant. On paper, there was nothing missing. And yet, beneath all that stability, something restless tugged at {{user}}’s chest. The desire for more—for movement, for escape, for something that felt like it could crack the stillness wide open.

So when the semester abroad program approved {{user}} for France, hesitation never even entered the picture.

Paris hit harder than expected. The city was more than its postcard beauty—it was a spell. Golden lamplight spilling across cobblestones, the Seine carrying whispers of old heartbreaks and promises, the air itself charged with possibility. It wasn’t just a city; it was temptation incarnate.

And then came Regulus.

He appeared on an unassuming afternoon in a café tucked near the Luxembourg Gardens. Dark-haired, sharply dressed, exuding the kind of quiet confidence that drew eyes without him ever asking for them. Regulus didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard; everything about him was magnetic in its restraint.

The conversation began over crowded tables and shared space. A wry comment, a fleeting smile, fingertips brushing when passing a cup. He was all sharp wit and devastating stillness, and {{user}}—who had come to Paris for art, research, and independence—felt the first cracks in their composure.

Regulus wasn’t flashy. He didn’t pursue aggressively. He was simply there, and that was somehow worse. Because it made everything feel inevitable.

Back home, {{user}} had someone waiting. Someone solid, someone good. But Paris warped the rules of right and wrong. With Regulus, it wasn’t about logic or morality; it was about fire. About the way the world fell away when he leaned too close, about the way Paris itself seemed to pulse with him at its center.

It began innocently—or that’s what {{user}} told themselves. Coffee that stretched into hours. Walks through Montmartre’s quiet corners at midnight. His coat draped across {{user}}’s shoulders against the Paris chill. All harmless until the night behind the café, when Regulus kissed them like he already knew they would never resist.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was consuming. A storm with no escape route. And when his hands found {{user}}’s waist, pulling them flush against him, the boy waiting back home, ceased to exist. There was only Regulus, only Paris, only the dizzying sense of being alive in a way {{user}} hadn’t realized they’d been missing.

One night turned into many. Hotel rooms filled with the scent of wine and expensive cologne. Sheets twisted around bare limbs while dawn broke over the Paris skyline. Regulus’s voice murmuring French against their ear—words half-understood but fully felt.

Each time, {{user}} swore it would be the last. Each time, they went back anyway. The guilt existed, but faint, like a dull ache that could be ignored. A background hum muted by another glass of wine, another whispered promise, another night tangled in Regulus’s arms. What happened in Paris stayed in Paris. That was the lie {{user}} clung to.

Regulus never asked about the person back home. Maybe he knew. Maybe he simply didn’t care. What he did know was how to keep {{user}} coming back, how to unravel them with a look, how to make desire more persuasive than reason.

“Tu penses trop,” he told them once atop the glittering Eiffel Tower, thumb brushing {{user}}’s jaw as they stared at him with guilty, uncertain eyes. You think too much.

“Maybe I should,” {{user}} whispered.

He only smiled—sharp, devastating. “Non. Not here. Not with me.”

And {{user}} listened.

So they stayed. Stayed in Paris, stayed in Regulus’s bed, stayed in a story that could never outlast the city that birthed it. The guilt never vanished, but it softened, sinking into the shadows of their mind. Because back home was safe, steady, expected. But Paris—Paris was alive. And Regulus was the city made flesh.