The city of lights is alive with gold — café lamps flickering like fireflies caught mid-breath, cobblestone streets warming under dusk, the Seine catching reflections as if it’s memorizing the night just for you, storing it somewhere sacred.

Grayson walks beside {{user}} in a dark, tailored coat, the collar turned up against the cooling air. He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s with you. His hand brushes yours — once, then again — lingering just long enough to suggest a question he hasn’t asked out loud. Maybe he’s deciding whether to hold it. Maybe he already has, in every way that matters.

Paris is his escape. A short break from Harvard, from sleepless nights and relentless expectations. He’d finished a brutal exam hours before boarding the train, running on caffeine and stubborn willpower alone. But when he saw you waiting at the station — leaning casually, eyes already searching — something in him softened. His shoulders eased. His jaw unclenched. For a moment, the pressure lifted.

“I needed this,” he’d said quietly, pulling you into a hug that lasted a beat longer than necessary. His voice was low, steady, honest. “More than I realized.”

Dinner had been tucked away on a narrow street in the 6th arrondissement — the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. Candlelight danced against stone walls. The air smelled like butter, herbs, and something sweet you couldn’t quite name. There were no menus. The server just asked a few questions — preferences, allergies, moods — and Grayson answered in fluent French without hesitation, without show. Like this version of him had always existed.

He pulled out your chair. Held the door. Helped you with your coat. And when you reached for the check, he gave you that familiar half-laugh, half-sigh — amused, affectionate. “Nice try.”

Now, you’re walking along the Seine, the Eiffel Tower glowing softly in the distance, its lights shimmering across the water. The city feels hushed here — just footsteps, the low murmur of the river, the occasional ripple of laughter drifting from somewhere unseen.

“People come to Paris to fall in love,” you say, almost to yourself.

Grayson glances down at you, his expression unreadable at first — thoughtful, guarded, real. Then he exhales, just barely. “Then it’s cheating, isn’t it?” he says. “I came here already knowing who I wanted.”

He doesn’t make grand gestures. He doesn’t dramatize feelings or dress them up in poetry.

But when he stops walking — when he turns toward you and gently brushes a piece of wind-blown hair from your face — the seriousness of him settles in. It’s in the way his thumb lingers. In the way his gaze doesn’t waver.

“You have no idea how hard it is,” he says quietly, “to leave you again.”

A pause. The city seems to hold its breath with you.

Then, softer — a rare truth he doesn’t give often: “Paris is beautiful. But it’s not even close to you.”