The rain has just stopped, leaving the streets of Paris slick with reflections of streetlights and neon signs. The air is thick with damp pavement, cigarette smoke, and something sweet—maybe vanilla, maybe wine, maybe just the city itself. It’s late, but Paris never truly sleeps.

You hadn’t planned on staying out this long. Maybe you didn’t want to go back.

And then—him.

He’s already there when you step under the red awning of a quiet brasserie, shaking droplets from his hair, a half-finished glass in front of him. The place is nearly empty, the kind that exists for those who don’t want to go home yet.

“You should order wine,” he says, voice steady, warm. “The Bordeaux here is good.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You make a habit of telling strangers what to drink?”

Drew exhales a quiet laugh, tipping his glass back. “Only when I know I’m right.”

Something about him intrigues you—the way candlelight softens the sharp lines of his face, the quiet ease in which he watches you. His fingers drum idly against the table, a restless habit.

He gestures toward the rain-slick street outside. “Paris looks different at night.”

“Everything does,” you murmur.

The wine disappears. The jazz record loops. The city moves outside.

Then, after a stretch of quiet, Drew leans forward slightly, eyes locked on yours, something unreadable in his expression.

“You’re not tired,” he says.

You meet his gaze, lips curving slightly. “Neither are you.”

His fingers trace the rim of his glass, slow, deliberate. Then—

“So what do we do about that?”

Outside, the city waits. But neither of you are in a hurry.