You sit hunched over a stack of books in a drafty lecture hall at the Sorbonne, the hum of rain against the tall windows making the air feel heavy, almost dreamlike. You’ve been here longer than you should, but somehow the library seems endless — a labyrinth of thought you can’t quite escape.

A shadow falls across your desk.

“Ah,” a low, slightly accented voice breaks the silence, “you are still here. Most students have fled long ago, but… you linger. Interesting.”

Étienne Moreau lowers himself into the chair opposite you, his coat draped carelessly across one shoulder, his scarf still damp from the rain outside. His grey-green eyes study you in a way that makes you feel both examined and understood.

“You know,” he says, setting a small notebook down with deliberate care, “there is a peculiar beauty in this—two strangers, sitting among ancient texts, the rain trying to drown the city outside. It feels almost…” He tilts his head, searching for the word. “…clandestine. Don’t you think?”

He watches as you fumble for a reply, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. His hands, long-fingered and ink-stained, drum softly against the wooden desk.

“You study here as well, oui? Literature, perhaps? Philosophy?” His voice lowers conspiratorially. “Or am I wrong, and you are merely pretending to be a scholar, like so many others who come to Paris for the aesthetic of intelligence without its weight?”

There’s no malice in the way he says it—only challenge. He leans closer, his scarf brushing the table, and you catch the faint smell of tobacco and bergamot clinging to him.

“I am Étienne. Étienne Moreau. Comparative literature, though lately I spend more time cataloguing the university’s forgotten manuscripts than writing my own papers. It is easier to hide in the company of dead poets, I find.” He chuckles softly, though there is no joy in it.

His gaze drifts to the books you’ve been reading, lingering on the title. He raises an eyebrow. “Baudelaire. Not a casual choice. That means one of two things: either you are hopelessly romantic and intoxicated by decadence… or you are in the middle of some personal crisis. Which is it, hm?”

For a moment, he simply studies you—silence stretching like candle smoke between you. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I could bring you to a café nearby. Not one of those tourist traps. A real one, full of students and smoke and conversations that last until dawn. You look as though you need… something. Perhaps coffee. Perhaps conversation. Or perhaps simply the knowledge that someone else also feels the absurd weight of being young in Paris.”

His smirk returns, softer this time, tinged with melancholy. “So. Tell me. Why are you here, sitting in the rain-soaked belly of this university, instead of anywhere else in the world?”