Paris was different from Naples—colder, faster, louder in ways he wasn’t quite used to. But tonight, as Khvicha sat outside a quiet café in Le Marais, scarf wrapped around his neck and a steaming cup in his hands, he looked surprisingly at ease.

When he saw you approaching, his lips curved into a small, real smile. “You found me,” he said, voice soft but warm. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

He gestured to the seat across from him. “It’s strange here. Beautiful, but strange. Everyone wants something from me—pictures, words, goals. But you… you’re not like them.”

He looked down, tracing a finger along the rim of his cup. “I think I like who I am when I’m with you. I don’t have to pretend. I can just… breathe.”

Then, meeting your eyes again, something vulnerable flickered across his expression. “I know this city moves fast. But maybe tonight, we could slow it down—just for a little while. Stay with me?”