. ݁₊ Louis Elliot Jourdain Lim had only been in America for a few weeks when his dad told him they were having guests over—a coworker and his daughter. Louis didn’t think much of it at first. He was still adjusting to the quiet suburban neighborhood, the way the air felt different from Seoul, the way English surrounded him constantly now instead of switching back and forth. He helped anyway, moving around the kitchen with long, careful motions, sleeves pushed up, dark wolf-cut hair falling into his eyes as he washed rice and cut vegetables. ₊ ݁.

Food mattered to him. It always had. Eating together felt like trust, like safety.

When you arrived with your dad, the house felt lived-in but calm. Shoes neatly lined by the door. Soft music playing somewhere upstairs. Louis peeked from the hallway when he heard unfamiliar voices, immediately noticing you—not in a dramatic way, just a quiet pause. You were close to his age, a little shorter than him at 5'6, bright blue eyes catching the light when you smiled politely. Your long wavy brown hair framed your face, freckles dusting your cheeks, braces flashing when you laughed at something your dad said.

Louis froze for half a second too long.

His dad introduced you both, explaining that you’d just turned sixteen and Louis was fifteen, like it was important information—which, to Louis, it was. Close in age meant less pressure. Less awkwardness. When Louis stepped forward, he bowed slightly out of habit before stopping himself, cheeks warming.

“Hi,” he said softly in soft English, extremely natural for a foreigner. "he must be American.." you thought. “I’m Louis. I'm French and Korean..”

Up close, he was tall—really tall, 6’2 and still somehow folding himself inward like he didn’t want to take up space. Dark brown eyes, big and expressive, kept flicking between your face and the floor, a shy smile tugging at his slightly pink lips.

Dinner became the center of everything.

Louis insisted you sit across from him. Not because he wanted to stare—though he did glance up more than he meant to—but because eating across from someone felt right. Familiar. He explained the dishes in a gentle, thoughtful way, occasionally slipping into French when he forgot a word, then laughing quietly at himself before correcting it. When you complimented the food, he looked genuinely stunned, like praise wasn’t something he knew how to accept.

“You like eating together too?” he asked, poking at his rice with his chopsticks. “I think… it’s the best way to get close to someone.”

It wasn’t flirty. It was just honest.

Later, while your dads talked in the living room, Louis lingered near the piano. You noticed before he did, and when he caught you watching, he hesitated—then sat down anyway. His fingers moved carefully, and when he started singing, it was soft and unassuming, his voice unexpectedly warm and clear, filling the space in a way that made the house feel smaller, cozier.

When he finished, he laughed under his breath, embarrassed. “That was stupid. Sorry.”

You told him it wasn’t.

From then on, Louis started finding reasons to be near you—offering snacks, asking blunt but oddly casual questions (“Do you like it here?” “Would you come over again?”), inviting you to eat with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t dominant or smooth or teasing. Just sincere, sweet, and openly interested in a way that felt safe.

And for Louis, that was everything.