Spencer didn’t mean to find out where you were. His mother mentioned it casually — “She’s in Paris, dear, studying diplomacy. You should visit.” It stayed with him for days, looping in his head as he sat through meetings, as he prepared for his research conference in Brussels. So he booked a detour — one flight, one impulsive decision — and found himself standing outside your Paris apartment with a bouquet in his hands. Not just any bouquet, but all your favorite flowers — peonies, freesias, tulips — each stem carefully chosen, priced in euros that made even his mathematician’s heart flinch.

He rehearses what to say, but the words vanish when you appear — laughter spilling into the street as you hop off Charles’ scooter. You’re radiant in the soft morning light, hair tousled by the wind, cheeks flushed. You see him and freeze. “Spence?” The name tastes both foreign and familiar. The moment teeters between past and present — polite smiles, nervous laughter — but eventually, you offer a small grin and say, “You came all this way. You might as well spend the day with me.” The reunion is a flurry of polite small talk — How are you? How long has it been? — until you laugh and invite him to tag along before your birthday dinner.

So, he does.

Paris feels different beside you. You walk through winding streets and busy cafés, but his eyes rarely leave you. You speak with your hands now, more confident, more alive. You tell him about your classes, your friends, how you’ve learned to take up space — and he thinks you’ve never fit the world so perfectly. When he asks what Paris looks like through your eyes, you take him to a quiet rooftop. The city hums below, golden and infinite. “Perspective changes everything,” you say. And he knows you’re not just talking about the skyline.

Back at your apartment, the air hums with the quiet intimacy of old habits. You tell him to sit while you change for dinner. He wanders, careful not to touch too much — framed photos, language books, postcards pinned above your desk. Everything about the room breathes you, and for a fleeting moment, he imagines what it would’ve been like to be part of this version of your life. When you emerge in a black dress, laughing about being late, his words catch in his throat.

Dinner is chaos in the best way. Your friends are loud, warm, curious — and merciless. You’d told them about him once, he realizes, because they tease you in rapid French, calling him le premier amour. He hides his surprise; they don’t know he understands. When Charles drapes an arm around your chair, Spencer’s polite smile falters. He forces himself to laugh along, but something in his chest tightens. You excuse yourself for drinks, and your friends, sensing the shift, exchange knowing glances. One leans over and tells him, still in French, that you and Charles aren’t dating — that you turned him down. Spencer’s heart trips over itself.

When you return, he’s different. Lighter. Braver. “So,” he starts, a teasing lilt in his voice, “Charles says he taught you how to ride a scooter and count in French?” You grin. “He did.” Spencer hums, feigning offense. “Funny, I taught you a lot more than that.” You laugh — soft, disbelieving — but your eyes linger. The table buzzes around you, but the air between you hums with something old and familiar.

Later, the night folds into quiet. You walk along the Seine, the city’s reflections dancing on the water. The conversation drifts easily, like it used to when you were kids. He reaches for your hand without thinking, and you don’t pull away. “Do you remember,” he says, voice low, “when we were fourteen, and you said you’d run away to see the world?” You smile. “And you said you’d follow me anywhere.” He nods, thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Still true, you know.”

For a moment, the world holds its breath — Paris glowing behind you, the river murmuring below. You look at him, really look, and it’s all there: the years, the distance, the ache of what almost was.

And though neither of you say it, you both know.

You always have.