archivesdotcom

[archivesdotcom]

everything after us

pairing charles leclere x reader

SUMMARY — they said goodbye years ago. At least, they tried. Now, standing across a crowded wedding, they learn that some endings don't stay dead-and some feelings never fade.

word count 7k

contains slowburn, second-chance romance? about two people reuniting at a wedding years after breaking apart, angst, and feelings resurfacing.

letter from the author 💌 . . . my inbox is open so feel free to send requests 💝

masterlist

THE RIVIERA SKY is too bright for how your stomach feels. A kind of wrong light—warm and golden, yes, but sharp, like it’s catching on every edge you’ve been trying to smooth down for years.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter. That one wedding isn’t enough to knock loose whatever you’ve nailed shut. You’ve been happy enough, busy enough, far enough away for long enough that even his name stopped feeling like an open wound.

But then you saw it on the invitation list. Charles Leclerc.

You thought about not coming. You almost didn’t. But the bride has been your friend since you were twelve, and you couldn’t explain it without making it obvious, and so here you are, in a dress you don’t feel pretty in, with your hands clenched in your lap as the car pulls up to the venue.

You tell yourself you’ll avoid him. Monaco has enough ghosts already—you don’t need to resurrect this one.

The venue is beautiful. Painfully so. Wide stone steps leading up to a terraced garden, strings of lights already strung even though the ceremony is hours away. Guests mill about in sharp suits and dresses the color of wealth, laughter lilting too easily through the air.

You take a glass of champagne because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. And then you see him.

From across the courtyard, near the fountain, his profile is unmistakable. Hair a little longer, shoulders broader, hand resting in the pocket of his tailored suit pants like he doesn’t even realize how effortless it looks. He’s laughing at something someone said, teeth flashing, dimples cutting into his face.

You look away so fast your neck aches.

You avoid him for the first hour. It’s easier than you thought it would be—there are plenty of people to talk to, people who don’t know what you and Charles used to be, who don’t see the ghost of what he meant to you in the way your eyes skip over him every time he’s near. But you feel him.

You don’t even have to look. There’s a shift in the air when he’s close, something quiet but electric. The same thing it used to be, only heavier now, weighted with everything unsaid.

You remember the last time you saw him. The argument on your apartment balcony, voices low so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, his jaw tight and eyes glassy, your heart breaking even though you swore it already had. He’d said, “Maybe you should just go, then,” and you had. You didn’t look back.

When the ceremony begins, you manage to sit three rows behind him. Not beside him, not near him. Just far enough that you can pretend you don’t notice the slope of his shoulders under his suit jacket or the way he runs a hand through his hair before the bride walks down the aisle.

Your heart stumbles once when his head turns slightly, like maybe he feels you there. Like maybe he’s looking for you.

But then the music swells, and you force yourself to watch the bride instead, to smile when she meets your eyes, to clap when the vows are done.

After the ceremony, there’s wine and small plates on the terrace. You keep to the edge, talking to an old friend about safe things—work, travel, how beautiful the ceremony was. It’s enough to almost calm you down.

Until you hear your name. It’s soft, tentative. Like he’s not sure he should say it out loud.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

And there he is. Charles.

Close enough to touch, wearing the same suit you noticed earlier, his tie a little loose now, a hand resting on the back of his neck like he’s nervous. Which is ridiculous, because you’ve never known him to be nervous.

Your mouth goes dry. “Hi,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else.

He nods once, something tight in his jaw. “Hi.”

The silence after stretches long enough for both of you to hear it.

“Been a while,” he says finally. His accent is thicker than you remember, or maybe you’re just hyper-aware of it now.

“Yeah,” you say. “Years.”

He nods again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Or maybe compare it to the one he remembers.

You want to ask how he’s been. You want to tell him you’re happy now, even if that happiness sometimes feels a little fragile. You want to do a lot of things.

Instead, you nod toward the champagne table. “I should—”

“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like he’s giving you space, like maybe he thinks that’s what you want.

You do.

You don’t.

You don’t know.

For the rest of the evening, you orbit each other like strangers. Like maybe you’ve never seen each other cry. Like maybe you don’t know what his voice sounds like when he says your name in the dark.

But every time you catch him looking—because you do, you always do—your chest aches with something you don’t want to name.

The reception moves inside as the sun dips low, turning the Riviera sky into a watercolor of pink and orange. Tables glitter with candles and crystal glasses, the air thick with soft music and the hum of too many conversations at once.

You take a seat near the edge of the room, relieved when a woman you vaguely know slips into the chair beside you, pulling you into polite chatter about how stunning the bride looks, how perfect the ceremony was. It’s easy to let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, focusing on the way the candlelight flickers against her wine glass instead of the man across the room.

Charles sits two tables away, angled just enough that you catch pieces of him between shoulders and flower arrangements. His jacket is off now, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a picture of ease that doesn’t reach his eyes when they flicker—always, inevitably—toward you.

You sip your drink and look away.

It takes another half hour before you speak again.

He approaches while you’re at the dessert table, reaching for a plate of lemon tarts. There’s no warning, no time to prepare—just his voice, low and even, saying your name like it’s foreign on his tongue.

You freeze, fingers tightening on the plate. “Hi,” you manage, because apparently that’s all you know how to say to him now.

“Hi,” he echoes, mouth twitching like he almost smiled but thought better of it.

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. He looks at the tarts. “You still hate lemon?”

You blink, surprised he remembers. “Yeah. Still do.”

He nods, sliding a chocolate mousse onto his plate instead. “Good. More for me, then.”

The silence between you isn’t sharp, exactly—it’s soft, padded with years of knowing each other and years of not.

You step aside to let someone else through, and he follows you toward the quieter corner near the bar.

“How’ve you been?” he asks. It’s a simple question, but his eyes are searching, like he wants more than the obvious answer.

You shrug lightly. “Busy. Moved a couple of times. Work’s good.” You glance at him. “You?”

His jaw flexes once. “Busy too. Racing, traveling, you know.”

You hum in response, because yes, you do know. You knew before anyone else did, back when he was still dreaming about it on late nights in your apartment, hands moving through the air as he explained corners and apexes like you were supposed to understand.

You remember the first time he won something big. The way he showed up at your door, champagne on his shirt, grin splitting his face, lifting you off the ground as he spun you around your tiny living room. You’d kissed him so hard your teeth knocked, both of you laughing into each other’s mouths.

You push the memory away like it’s hot to the touch. He leans against the bar, looking at you with something hesitant in his expression. “You still in Paris?”

“Yeah.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Feels like home now.”

There’s something flickering behind his eyes at that, but he doesn’t press. He just nods once, softly.

Someone calls his name from across the room—a teammate, loud and grinning. Charles lifts a hand in acknowledgment, then looks back at you.

“You look good,” he says finally, like he can’t hold it in any longer.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks. So do you.” It’s awkward, stilted, but real.

You find yourselves at the same table after that, a subtle magnetism neither of you comments on. The small talk continues, stretching out like a bridge you’re both scared to cross but can’t quite walk away from.

He tells you about a restaurant he discovered in Tokyo. You talk about the bookshop near your apartment that hosts poetry nights. It’s safe, surface-level—but then he laughs at something you say, and it’s the same laugh as before: open, bright, with that soft edge like he’s surprised by it.

You catch yourself smiling, almost involuntarily.

Later, during a lull between toasts, he leans toward you slightly. “Remember Rome?”

The words hit you like a soft punch. You swallow, eyes narrowing. “Rome?”

He nods, mouth twitching. “The gelato place with the ridiculous neon sign.”

You blink, then laugh despite yourself. “Oh my God, yes. The one where you dropped your cone, and that kid laughed so hard he fell over.”

He grins, looking down briefly like he can’t believe you remember too. “I still hate strawberry because of that day.”

The laugh that slips out of you feels dangerous, like standing too close to something flammable.

For a moment, it’s almost easy. Almost like nothing happened, like you’re not two people who walked away from each other bleeding years ago.

And then the music shifts, and someone grabs the microphone to announce the first dance. You pull back slightly, suddenly aware of how close you’ve leaned, of how easily this could tip into something you’re not ready for.

Charles notices too; you see it in the way his hand curls against the edge of the table, like he’s physically holding himself back.

“Want another drink?” you ask quickly, breaking the moment.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” As you stand, his hand brushes yours. Barely. Almost nothing. But it sends something sharp through your chest.

You don’t look at him when you walk to the bar. You don’t have to—you already know he’s watching.

The bride and groom take the floor first, their bodies swaying slow and easy to a love song that feels almost too tender for the air between you and Charles. You watch from your seat, trying to focus on the way the bride’s veil shifts with each turn, the way she’s smiling like the world doesn’t exist outside this room.

Charles sits across from you, elbow resting against the back of his chair, his gaze cutting toward you when he thinks you’re not looking.

You look anyway. For a second, it’s like staring into something you’d buried years ago—something with teeth.

When the music fades into applause, the DJ announces the dance floor is open, inviting everyone else to join in. Couples file toward the center, dresses spinning, laughter curling through the air.

You stand, mostly to avoid the way Charles is looking at you again, but before you can step away, he’s there, blocking your path with nothing but a hesitant expression and a question hovering between his brows.

“Dance with me?” Two words. That’s it. Simple, low, but your chest feels too small for how much it holds.

Your first instinct is to say no. To protect yourself, to keep your hands at your sides where they can’t betray you. But something in his face stops you—the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for rejection, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his side.

You nod. Just once. “Okay.”

The dance floor is crowded, which helps. It means you don’t have to be too close, don’t have to feel his heartbeat against your own. Except when his hand settles at your waist—gentle, careful—you feel it anyway.

His other hand waits, and you place yours in it before you can think better of it.

For the first few steps, you keep your eyes anywhere but his—on the ceiling lights, on the couple spinning near you, on the champagne glass abandoned on the floor’s edge. But eventually, you look up.

And he’s already looking at you. Neither of you speaks at first, letting the music fill the space. Something slow, low strings and soft piano, the kind of song that makes everything feel fragile.

“You’re still terrible at leading,” you murmur, because it’s safer than silence.

His mouth lifts at one corner. “You’re still terrible at following.”

The laugh that slips out of you is small but real, curling warm in your chest and settling somewhere dangerous.

You remember dancing with him once before. Not at a wedding, but in your kitchen, barefoot and half-drunk on cheap wine. The radio had been playing some scratchy old song, and he’d pulled you in, spinning you around between the counter and the sink. You’d stepped on his foot, and he’d laughed, kissed your forehead, told you he liked it better when you didn’t know what you were doing. You’d whispered you loved him then, so soft you weren’t sure he even heard it. He had. He always heard you.

The memory catches in your throat, and you glance away, blinking fast.

Charles notices. You know he does—his thumb brushes, almost imperceptibly, against your waist, like he wants to anchor you there. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

You almost tell him. Almost open the old wound and let him see it. But you shake your head instead. “Nothing important.”

The song ends, and neither of you moves for a beat too long. His hand lingers at your waist, your fingers still curled against his. When you finally step back, there’s something unreadable in his eyes—something soft and sharp all at once.

“Thanks,” you say, because what else is there?

He nods. “Anytime.”

Later, you find yourself outside for a moment, catching your breath. The night air is cooler, easier to breathe in, and you grip the stone railing like it might hold you together.

You hear him before you see him—his footsteps are familiar, even now. “You’re hiding,” he says, voice quiet.

You don’t turn. “So are you.”

He chuckles under his breath, moving to stand beside you, leaning on the same railing. The silence stretches, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either.

“Earlier,” he says finally, “when you laughed.. I missed that.”

The words are soft, but they land heavy. You glance at him, and he’s already watching you, eyes too earnest for your chest to handle.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “Okay.”

You stand there for a while, saying nothing, the distant sound of music spilling from inside. People are laughing, dancing, celebrating, but out here it’s just the two of you and the weight of everything left unsaid.

When you finally move to go back inside, he touches your arm—light, barely there, but enough to make you pause.

“You looked happy out there,” he says.

Your chest tightens. “I was, for a minute.”

His mouth opens like he wants to say something else, but he closes it, stepping back instead. “Okay.”

For the rest of the night, you can feel him watching from across the room again, like gravity. Like something you thought you’d escaped but maybe never did.

And, God help you, a small part of you doesn’t hate it.

The balcony is quieter than the gardens were earlier, the music from the reception slipping through the doorway like a memory that doesn’t belong to you. Out here, there’s only the sea and the faint clinking of silverware, a thread of laughter from somewhere far away. Strings of lights drape above, humming gently in the breeze, turning everything gold and soft in a way that feels dishonest.

You lean forward on the stone railing, drink dangling loosely between your fingers. Below, the water is dark and still, black glass stretching to meet the horizon. The French Riviera always smells faintly of salt and sun-baked concrete, but tonight there’s something sharper in it, something that hooks into your lungs and refuses to let go.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” You don’t startle, though you should. His voice has always been like that—low, threaded with something warm and unshakable, like even the night leans toward it.

You glance over your shoulder. Charles stands by the doorframe, jacket off, tie undone in the way he does when he’s tired but pretending not to be. He pauses like he’s waiting for permission, like maybe you’ll tell him to leave.

You don’t. “You still disappear when things get too loud,” he says, stepping closer.

“And you still don’t,” you answer.

His mouth tilts, almost a smile. “Not tonight.”

He joins you at the railing, close enough that your shoulders are separated by an inch that feels deliberate. The silence between you settles differently than it did inside—less sharp, but heavier somehow, like it’s holding too much.

“How’s Paris?” he asks finally.

You take a sip of your drink, eyes still on the sea. “Good. Quiet. Feels like mine.”

There’s a pause, then a soft hum of acknowledgment. “I’m glad.”

You glance at him, at the way the light pools along his cheekbone, the tired set of his jaw, a faint scar near his temple that wasn’t there before. He looks older, not in years but in edges—like life filed down something soft in him.

“You look..” you start, then catch yourself. Too easy, too much. “Different.”

His brows lift, faintly amused. “Better or worse?”

You shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Just different.”

The wind shifts, carrying the faint tang of salt and the ghost of his cologne—amber and something clean, the same one he used to leave on your pillows. It hits so suddenly your chest goes tight.

“You still can’t stand weddings,” he says, breaking the quiet.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “They’re fine.”

He studies your profile, eyes lingering, softening like he’s seeing more than he should. “You used to say they felt like watching someone else’s dream and realizing you woke up too soon.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”

“Yeah.” His voice dips, quieter now. “I remember a lot of things.” That’s when it hits you—not the words themselves but the way he says them, like he’s admitting to something heavier, like the weight of what’s unsaid is bending him in half.

You grip the railing a little tighter. “Charles.”

But whatever you were about to say dies there, because he turns slightly toward you, and he’s looking at you with that expression you’ve avoided all night: soft, wrecked, hungry in a way that feels dangerous.

You remember nights like this before. Balconies, rooftops, train platforms—quiet places where the world felt small and his hands felt big enough to hold all of it. He used to trace the curve of your jaw like it was something holy, whisper promises into your hair that felt too big to say out loud in daylight.

He rests his hand on the railing, fingers brushing yours—not enough to be accidental, not enough to be safe.

“You’re not wearing a ring,” he says suddenly, eyes flicking to your bare hand.

Your pulse jumps. “Neither are you.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, looking away. “Guess we’re both still terrible at endings.” Something inside you stirs, sharp and warm, and you hate how much of it feels like relief.

“Why are you here, Charles?” you ask quietly.

His eyes cut back to you, unreadable for a beat. “Same reason as you, I guess.”

“Which is?” He leans a little closer, enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes under the lights.

“Trying not to think about you.” The words land like a stone dropped into water—quiet at first, then rippling out until it touches everything.

You swallow, throat thick. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” His voice is soft, but there’s a thread of steel in it now.

“Because it feels like you mean it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I do mean it.” There it is—the shift you’ve been pretending not to feel since you saw him this afternoon. Everything tilts closer: his hand brushing yours again, the air charged and heavy, his eyes dropping—just for a second—to your mouth.

And for one terrifying, thrilling moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

He doesn’t. He steps back, one hand dragging through his hair like he needs the space to breathe. “Goodnight,” he says, and it’s softer than it should be, a word shaped like something unsaid.

You stand there long after he’s gone, heart pounding like you’ve run miles, drink warming uselessly in your hand, wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped.

You spend the rest of the night avoiding him. Or at least, you try. It’s easier inside, where laughter and clinking glasses create enough static to drown your thoughts, where you can tuck yourself between strangers and pretend you don’t feel the pull like gravity. But even surrounded, you know where he is—by the way your chest tightens every time the air shifts, like the room bends slightly when he moves.

You last another thirty minutes before you step out again. The night air is cooler now, threaded with salt and the faint hum of the ocean below. You’re halfway down the back hallway when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn to know.

“You’re leaving?” His voice is quiet but certain, the same tone he used years ago when he already knew your answer but asked anyway.

You glance back at him. “I was thinking about it.”

He nods once, eyes unreadable. “Of course.”

You cross your arms, more defense than comfort. “Why are you out here?”

He gives a small, humorless smile. “Same reason as always. Needed air.”

There’s silence then, thick enough to feel. He shifts slightly, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

“You looked happy earlier,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere near your shoulder. “On the dance floor. Laughing.”

You tilt your head, unsure if it’s meant as an accusation or a memory. “That’s what people do at weddings, Charles. They laugh.”

“Not like that,” he mutters. “You don’t laugh like that unless you mean it.”

You look at him for a long beat, then shake your head. “You always think you know me better than I do.”

His jaw tightens, something flickering across his face. “Maybe I do.”

It would be easier to walk away, to let this moment die quietly like it’s supposed to. But instead you find yourself stepping closer, words slipping before you can stop them. “You left first, remember?”

His eyes snap to yours, sharp and immediate. “I know.” He swallows. “I know I did.”

There’s so much loaded in those four words that you almost stagger under it—regret, guilt, longing so obvious it hurts to look at. You take a breath, try to steady yourself. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We’re just talking.”

“Charles.” He huffs out a laugh that isn’t really one, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to ground himself. “You think I don’t know? That I haven’t been trying all night to stay on the other side of the room because if I don’t, I’ll..”

He trails off, shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say quietly, something tight in your chest. “Finish it.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and you feel it all over—like a spotlight turned inward, like he’s cataloguing every piece of you he used to know by heart. “Because if I don’t, I’ll remember what it’s like to have you.”

The silence after that is unbearable. You should break it, laugh it off, change the subject—but you don’t. You stand there, feeling the pull like a riptide.

And then something shifts. It’s small at first, barely noticeable: the way he steps half an inch closer, the way your breath catches without permission.

He reaches up slowly, like he’s giving you time to move, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear—soft, careful, like he’s holding something fragile. You don’t step back.

“Do you still think about it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Your throat works, but no sound comes out.

That’s answer enough.

The kiss happens like it’s been waiting for hours instead of years. One second there’s air between you, the next it’s gone—his mouth on yours, warm and urgent, tasting faintly of champagne and something sharper, something unspoken.

You inhale sharply against him, one hand gripping the fabric of his shirt because you’re suddenly terrified of gravity. His other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s grounding himself too.

It’s not soft, not careful like it used to be. It’s desperate, uneven, the kind of kiss that pulls at old wounds even as it soothes them. You kiss him back because you can’t not, because there’s no version of you in this moment that knows how to let go.

You remember the first time you ever kissed him. A quiet afternoon, a sunlit window, laughter slipping into silence before he leaned in like it was the most natural thing in the world. That kiss had been gentle, uncertain, sweet.

This one is none of those things. This one is years of missing and resenting and wanting, all tangled into one impossible moment.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far—just enough to look at you, eyes searching, pupils blown wide. His chest rises quick and uneven, and for a second you think he’s going to say something monumental.

But he doesn’t. Neither of you speaks. The space is thick with everything you just broke open, all the air feeling used and thin.

You take a small step back, needing distance you don’t really want. “This was—”

“A mistake?” he offers, voice raw.

You hesitate, because you don’t believe it, but nod anyway. “Yeah.”

He smiles at that—broken, tired, something almost self-deprecating—but doesn’t argue. He just looks at you one last time, like memorizing your face all over again, before slipping past you toward the door.

You stand there alone, lips tingling, heart pounding, knowing something shifted and terrified of what comes next.

You wake up with the taste of him still on your lips. It’s faint, ghostlike, like the echo of a song you half-remember—but it’s there. Your body knows it before your brain catches up: the heat of his hands, the sound he made when you kissed him back, the way the world felt like it cracked open for just one impossible moment.

And then the weight hits you.

You sit up too fast, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed in the small guest room they’d given you. The wedding was supposed to be simple: show up, smile, survive the polite conversations, and leave without looking back. Not this. Not him.

Your dress from last night is crumpled on the chair, and your shoes are kicked halfway under the bed. It feels like evidence—like someone could walk in and see every mistake written on the floor.

There’s movement outside, the faint shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, a cupboard door closing. You know it’s him before you hear the kettle whistle.

You consider waiting him out, hiding until you can leave unseen, but you’re not seventeen anymore, and this isn’t a high school party. So you wash your face, pull on yesterday’s jeans, and walk into the kitchen like you don’t feel like throwing up.

He’s there, of course.

Hair still a mess, jaw shadowed, barefoot like he’s trying not to wake the house. He looks up when you step in, and there’s that same flicker as last night: surprise, then relief, then something harder to place—like he’s already bracing for a hit.

“Coffee?” he asks. His voice is low, hoarse from sleep or from you or from both.

You nod once, taking a seat at the counter because standing feels too exposed.

He pours two mugs, slides one toward you, and leans against the counter opposite, watching steam rise from his own. The silence is thick enough to choke on.

You blow on the coffee, take a sip that burns your tongue, and set it down harder than you mean to.

“This was a mistake,” you say, not looking at him.

He doesn’t flinch, but his knuckles tighten around the mug. “Yeah. You said that last night.”

“And I meant it.”

There’s a beat, sharp and fragile. Then: “You kissed me back.”

You glance up, meet his eyes, and immediately wish you hadn’t. They’re dark and tired and a little too open. “Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I wanted this.”

He laughs—bitter, quick. “You did.”

You slam the mug down this time, coffee sloshing over the edge. “Stop acting like you know me.”

“Stop acting like you don’t care,” he fires back, straightening now, no longer leaning, no longer soft. “You think I didn’t feel that? You think I didn’t feel how much you—”

He shakes his head, pacing now, one hand raking through his hair like he’s trying to keep from falling apart. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see you, to remember everything I tried to forget, and then—fuck—” He gestures between you. “This?”

You fold your arms, armor back in place. “Nobody forced you.”

“Right,” he says, voice sharp. “Just like nobody forced you to kiss me back.” The words hang there, brutal and heavy. You both breathe like you’ve run out of air.

Finally, you push your chair back, standing like you can leave this conversation behind. “We’re done.”

His jaw sets, eyes blazing, but his voice comes out quiet, lethal. “We were done years ago.”

You freeze, just for a second, then grab your bag and move toward the door.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it,” he says as you grip the handle. “Don’t rewrite this to make it easier for you later.”

You pause, hand tightening on the strap of your bag, because he’s right and you hate him for it. “I didn’t come here for you,” you say finally, still facing the door.

“I know,” he answers, voice breaking just enough to hear it. “But you still came back.”

You don’t turn around. You just open the door, step into the cool morning air, and walk away, heart pounding, throat tight, every step feeling like you’re trying to outrun something that’s faster than you.

Back in the kitchen, he doesn’t move for a long time. Just stands there, staring at the door like maybe if he waits long enough, you’ll come back and tell him none of it meant anything.

You spend most of the day in motion because stopping feels dangerous.

There’s breakfast with people you barely know, conversations about flight times and honeymoon destinations, the scraping sound of cutlery against porcelain plates. Every noise is too sharp, too present, and all you can think about is the kitchen—his voice, the coffee you abandoned, the way his eyes cut straight through you like he’d been waiting years to finally say those things out loud.

You keep your head down, fingers tight around your phone like it might save you from this, and you nod at the right times when someone speaks to you. There’s laughter around the table—someone telling a story about the wedding cake, how it nearly collapsed before dinner—and you manage to smile when they look at you. It feels like lying.

Every now and then, you catch yourself looking for him. He isn’t there.

After breakfast, you take your bag from the guest room and retreat outside, needing air, needing distance. The property slopes gently toward the water, sunlight glittering sharp against the waves. It’s beautiful, objectively. The kind of morning people put on postcards. But it feels sterile, too bright for how heavy your chest is.

You sit on the steps and scroll through nothing—emails, unread texts, photos of things you barely remember taking. Your thumb pauses over one image, old and unassuming: a hand on the wheel of a car, watch glinting in the sun. His watch. His hand. The day he taught you how to drive his old car in the hills, laughing when you stalled at every corner.

“Relax, you’re fighting it,” he’d said back then, hand covering yours on the shifter, smile easy and warm. “Just feel it.”

You lock your phone and shove it back in your bag. Footsteps behind you.

You don’t look up right away, but you know it’s him. The air shifts, heavier somehow. He stops a few feet back, like even he’s unsure if coming closer is allowed.

“Hey,” he says finally, voice quiet, strained at the edges.

You nod once without turning. “Hey.”

There’s a long pause. “You heading out soon?”

“Yeah. This afternoon.”

Another pause, longer this time. He moves, sits one step below you, far enough that your knees don’t touch, close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

The silence stretches thin. You keep your eyes on the water because looking at him feels like walking into fire.

“About earlier,” he starts.

You shake your head, cutting him off. “We said what we needed to say.”

His hands flex once on his knees, jaw shifting. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you answer, and your voice is flat, foreign to your own ears.

He laughs, low and humorless. “You really don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“You want me to lie?”

“No,” he says, turning his head to look at you. “But maybe… I don’t know. Something softer.”

That makes you look at him, finally. “I don’t have soft left for you, Charles.”

He swallows, eyes flicking away first. The words hit, but he doesn’t fight them. “Fair.”

You want to stop there, let silence eat up the rest, but something pushes out of you anyway. “You hurt me.”

The admission hangs in the air, small but absolute. His eyes close briefly, like he’d been expecting it but not like this, not so plainly said. “I know.”

“You don’t get to just show up in my life again, kiss me, and expect me to pretend like everything in between didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t expect you to pretend,” he says softly. “I just—” He stops, laughs under his breath, broken. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I expected.”

You nod, standing then because sitting feels too exposed. “I should get my stuff together.”

He stays seated, looking up at you like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t. His hands hang loose between his knees, shoulders sloped, and for a moment you almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

You turn and walk back inside. Later, while you’re packing, you hear the sound of a car pulling up outside, the chatter of someone else arriving, voices muffled and cheerful. It all feels like another world entirely, one you’re not part of.

You zip your bag, glance once around the room to make sure you haven’t left anything, and catch yourself in the mirror. You look fine. Composed, even. But your eyes give you away, red at the edges, tired in a way that no amount of sleep will fix.

Downstairs, he’s leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, like he’s been waiting but won’t admit it.

“You need a ride to the station?” he asks.

“No, I booked one.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he might step forward, might say something reckless, but instead he just clears his throat. “Safe trip.”

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Thanks.” The driver honks outside, sharp and final. You step past him, careful not to brush against him, and push out into the sunlight.

For one wild second, you expect him to follow, to stop you, to grab your wrist and make a scene like in the movies. He doesn’t.

He stays in the doorway, watching you leave like he’s trying to memorize the way your back looks when you walk away.

The train station smells like metal and rain.

It’s early, too early for most people to be traveling, which is why you picked this time. Fewer eyes, fewer goodbyes, fewer chances to falter. The tiles glisten under pale light, reflecting fragments of the morning that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely.

You check your ticket again, even though you know the time by heart. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from thinking about him.

Outside, it’s drizzling, soft and uncommitted, the kind of rain that lingers without purpose. You watch it streak down the glass wall, blurring the view of the platform, and wonder briefly if he’s still in bed, if he even knows what time you’re leaving. You didn’t tell him. He didn’t ask.

There had been no final scene, no dramatic plea to stay. Just two people in a doorway, choosing silence over another wound, letting the weight of what they were—and what they weren’t—speak for them.

You almost wish he’d fought for it. Almost.

The loudspeaker announces a delay, static-filled and impersonal, and the handful of travelers around you groan. You don’t. You welcome the extra minutes like an undeserved gift, even though it changes nothing. You’re still leaving.

You pull out your phone and open a blank message. His name sits at the top of the screen, familiar and dangerous.

For a long moment, your thumbs hover. There are a hundred things you could say—I’m sorry, I love you still, This didn’t have to end this way—but none of them feel like they belong to you anymore. None of them would change anything.

You lock the phone and slide it back into your bag.

You think of last night. The way he kissed you like you were oxygen. The way your fingers curled into his shirt because you forgot how not to need him.

And then the morning, sharp and cold, voices raised not because you hated each other but because you didn’t know how else to say you were hurting.

There’s no taking that back. The train finally screeches into view, all steel and noise and motion. People rise, adjusting their bags, tugging jackets tight. You stand too, but slower, like you’re underwater.

Your reflection stares back at you from the window: tired, drawn, not the same person who stepped onto that wedding property two days ago thinking she could survive this cleanly.

You don’t hear him approach because he doesn’t. He isn’t there. And maybe that’s what hurts most—not the absence, but the clarity of it.

You’d half expected to see him anyway, leaning against some far wall, hands in his pockets, pretending he just happened to be passing through. It’s the kind of thing he used to do, finding ways to exist in the same space without asking permission.

But there’s only strangers here. Only the life you had before him and after him, colliding in this sterile space.

When the doors slide open, you step in. The carriage is nearly empty, a quiet hum replacing the static noise of the station. You drop into a seat by the window, setting your bag on the one next to you, and let your forehead rest against the glass.

Outside, the platform blurs. The drizzle turns to rain, heavier now, streaking the world into vague shapes and colors. Somewhere in that mess of movement and water, you think of him.

Of the way he looked at you the first time you met, eyes too bright for someone you were supposed to keep at arm’s length.

Of summer nights and car rides, quiet mornings and the way your name always sounded different in his mouth.

You bite down on your lip, hard enough to sting.

The train lurches forward. You watch as the station falls away, shrinking in the distance until it’s just another blur of lines and motion. And with it, the past few days slip further behind, like the world is conspiring to move you along whether you’re ready or not.

There’s a sharp ache in your chest, one that feels both old and new, like it’s been waiting for this moment. You grip the edge of the seat until your knuckles pale, forcing yourself to breathe past it.

This is closure, you tell yourself.

Not the romantic kind. Not the kind where people choose each other in the end and everything clicks into place. This is quieter, heavier—choosing yourself because staying would break something bigger than your heart.

You don’t cry, not really. A few tears slide hot and quick down your cheeks, and you swipe them away before they can fall onto your shirt.

Your phone buzzes once in your pocket. You don’t check it right away, just stare at the rain outside and let the hum of the train fill the space between breaths.

When you finally look, it’s a message from him. Just one line: Take care of yourself.

You stare at it until the letters blur, until the ache in your throat sharpens again, and then you set the phone face down on the seat beside you.

Outside, the horizon stretches, endless and open, and you tell yourself you’ll be okay. Maybe not now. Maybe not for a long time. But eventually.

Because love isn’t always enough. And sometimes, walking away is the closest thing to mercy you can give each other.

[archivesdotcom]

the small apartment in paris

pairing charles leclerc x reader

SUMMMARY — you move to Paris chasing a childhood dream and end up sharing an apartment with Charles, a stranger with too many secrets and eyes that feel like home.

word count 10.9k

contains accidental roommates, slow burn romance, strangers-to-lovers, emotional intimacy, quiet domestic moments, and soft urban Parisian atmosphere.

letter from the author 💌 . . . feedbacks are highly appreciated! i haven’t written a fic in so long and the story just feels weird idk 🥲

masterlist

Paris is quieter than you imagined.

The taxi drops you off at the corner of Rue de l’Université, where the rain has thinned to a stubborn drizzle. The city feels muted, softened under a pale sky. You stand on the pavement with two suitcases and the weight of every decision that led you here, fingers curling tight around the keys in your coat pocket.

You had imagined this moment hundreds of times. Childhood dreams drawn in the margins of old notebooks: Paris. The city where your life was supposed to finally make sense, where you’d be new, lighter, untouched by everything you’d left behind.

You look up at the building. Three floors, cream walls, balcony railings threaded with ivy. Charming in that way only old European architecture can be, like it knows how many lives have passed through it and kept its secrets anyway. It doesn’t matter that the paint chips near the gutters or that one shutter hangs crooked. It’s yours.

You climb the narrow staircase slowly, dragging your suitcase behind you. The wood groans under your feet, air thick with dust and faint traces of someone’s lingering perfume. Third floor, end of the hall. Your apartment.

You slide the key into the lock.

It doesn’t turn.

You frown, trying again. It gives this time, a stiff click, and you push the door open—

—only to freeze. There’s someone inside.

A man. Broad-shouldered, standing in the middle of the living room like he owns it. A duffel bag sits by the sofa. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair. The kettle on the stove is starting to whine, steam curling up to the ceiling.

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“Excuse me?” Your voice is sharp, higher than usual. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He turns fast, eyes narrowing as if you’re the intruder. There’s an edge of wariness in his stance, weight shifting slightly onto one foot. He’s tall, maybe six feet, hair brown and curling slightly at the ends like it refuses to be tamed. His shirt clings to him in a way that speaks of muscles you don’t want to notice right now.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice deep but cautious.

You grip the keys in your hand like a weapon. “I live here. Who are you?”

The kettle screams behind him, piercing the silence. He doesn’t move to turn it off, just watches you, assessing. His eyes—green, startlingly so—scan over your face, your hands, the suitcase by your feet. “No,” he says finally, brow furrowing. “This is my apartment.”

You laugh, humorless. “No, it’s mine. I signed the lease, I paid the deposit, I—” You pull the envelope from your coat, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “See? Apartment 24.”

Something flickers across his face. Confusion. Irritation. He runs a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. “Merde.”

“What?”

“Just—wait there.” He moves to the small table, pulling out his own set of papers, flipping through quickly. He holds them up like proof. “Same address.” Your stomach twists. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The kettle clicks off by itself, leaving a heavy silence behind. You can hear your pulse in your ears. This is supposed to be your apartment. Your fresh start. Your first morning in Paris, the dream you’ve been chasing since you were a kid. And instead, there’s a stranger standing where your new life is supposed to begin.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to scream or leave.

You square your shoulders. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but you need to leave.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving. I moved in yesterday.” You blink, startled. “Yesterday? There’s been a mistake—”

“Obviously,” he cuts in, tone sharp but not cruel. “But I’m not a squatter, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” you snap, then immediately regret how your voice cracks.

His expression shifts slightly, softening at the edges. “I’m not.” He pauses, gaze sliding toward the jacket on the chair, the keys on the counter. “Look… whoever handled this, they double-booked it. We’ll have to call.” You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “So, what? We’re both homeless now?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not homeless. Just… inconvenienced.” You glare. “Inconvenienced? I flew halfway across the world for this place. This was supposed to be my new start.”

Something in his face changes at that. A flicker of understanding, maybe even guilt. “You moved here alone?”

“Yes,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “And I’m not sharing with some random guy who just—” You gesture at him, at all of this. “—shows up.”

He crosses his arms, leans against the counter with a calmness that infuriates you. “We don’t have many options tonight.” You freeze. “Excuse me?”

“It’s late,” he points out, voice quieter now. “Finding somewhere else this fast, at this price? Impossible.” The reality of it hits, sinking heavy in your chest. He’s right. You don’t have another place, not yet. You spent your last savings just to get here, to make this dream happen.

You look at him properly now, the details sinking in: the defined jaw, the tired eyes, the faint accent curling around his English. And under all of that—something familiar.

“Who are you?” you ask finally.

He hesitates, then: “Charles.”

You nod slowly. “Fine, Charles. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. Tomorrow, we fix this.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods once. “Deal.” But when you drag your suitcase toward the bedroom—the bedroom—you realize there’s only one.

And you don’t look back to see the way he exhales like this just got complicated.

The apartment feels smaller with him inside it.

You stand in the doorway of the single bedroom, fingers gripping your suitcase handle like it’s a lifeline. The bed is queen-sized, barely enough for one person to stretch out comfortably, and certainly not enough for two strangers who met less than twenty minutes ago under the worst possible circumstances.

Charles hovers by the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he’s trying not to make any sudden moves. His eyes flick to you, then away. “I can take the floor,” he says finally, voice low, even. “You don’t have to—” you start, then stop because yes, actually, he does. “Yeah, that’s probably best.” You step into the bedroom, dragging your suitcase inside, and close the door with a soft click.

The silence in the apartment is thick, broken only by the muted hum of Paris outside—distant cars on wet streets, muffled voices from a neighboring apartment, the occasional drip of rain on the balcony railing.

You sit on the edge of the bed and exhale. This was not supposed to happen. You pictured your first night in Paris so many times: unpacking with music playing softly, drinking cheap wine from a nearby shop, maybe even calling someone back home to tell them how perfect it all felt. Not… this. Not him.

You hear him moving in the living room—footsteps across the hardwood, the scrape of a chair being shifted. You tell yourself not to care, but every sound reminds you he’s out there, a stranger with keys to your apartment.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s just one night, you tell yourself. Tomorrow, the leasing company will sort this out. He’ll leave. You’ll get your life back on track.

Except morning doesn’t bring solutions.

The alarm on your phone buzzes softly, and for a moment you forget where you are. Then you hear it—soft breathing from the other side of the bedroom door. You slip out of bed, open it a crack, and freeze.

Charles is asleep on the floor, curled awkwardly against the sofa with a blanket twisted around his waist. He’s facing the balcony, one hand resting near his face, his mouth slightly parted. It’s disarming, seeing him like that—unguarded, quiet.

You step carefully into the kitchen, avoiding the floorboards that creak, and start the kettle. But even the click of the switch wakes him.

His eyes open slowly, blinking as he focuses on you. “Morning.” His voice is rough with sleep, low in a way that feels intimate despite everything.

You nod stiffly. “Morning. We need to call the company.”

It takes hours of phone calls—your stilted French, his sharper, faster French that suggests he’s used to arguing for things until they happen. Eventually, you both hang up with the same answer: there are no available units. Not for weeks.

“They said we can both stay. Just… share.” He runs a hand over his face, sighing. “Merde.” You sit at the small kitchen table, pressing your fingertips to your temple. “I can’t afford a hotel. I can’t…” You trail off, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He notices. His expression softens. “You moved here for work?” You shake your head. “For me. I’ve wanted to live here since I was little.” You laugh without humor. “Figured Paris was big enough for me to start over.”

Charles leans on the counter, watching you. There’s something thoughtful in his eyes, something that makes you look away. “You can still do that,” he says quietly. “Even if you didn’t plan on me being here.”

You glance up, surprised at the gentleness in his tone. “You’re not exactly part of the dream.” His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite hurt. “I know.”

By evening, you’ve both unpacked just enough to survive. The apartment feels full, too full: his duffel bag by the sofa, your suitcase half-open in the bedroom. You brush past him in the narrow hallway and feel the heat of his body even though you don’t touch.

It’s strange how aware you are of him already.

When he speaks, you catch yourself staring. When he’s silent, you still hear him—breathing, shifting, existing in a space you thought would be yours alone.

You find yourself at the balcony late that night, city lights winking beyond the rooftops. It’s cool, the kind of chill that makes you pull your sweater tighter.

“You don’t like sharing space,” Charles says behind you.

You startle, spinning to face him. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Neither do you,” you counter.

He hums, gaze steady. “True.”

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then he steps forward, just enough for the light from the living room to catch on his face. There’s something about him that feels familiar, though you can’t place why.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” he says finally. “I travel a lot. I won’t be here every day.”

You hesitate. “You travel for racing?” His brows lift slightly. “So you do know who I am.”

“I don’t,” you say honestly. “Just what you told me yesterday.” He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. “Good. I like it better that way.”

Later, when you lie in bed, you can hear him breathing on the floor beyond the door again. It shouldn’t matter, but it does—it feels heavy, unsettling, like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life instead of your own. You grip the sheets tight and close your eyes.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Tomorrow you’ll figure out how to live with him, or without him. But tonight, you feel the weight of Paris pressing in on you, smaller than you thought it would be.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

By the third day, you know how he moves in the mornings.

The apartment is small enough that every sound carries: the soft thud of his feet on the wood, the faint gurgle of the coffeemaker, the hiss of the shower. He’s efficient, never lingering long enough for conversation, and by the time you drag yourself out of bed, the scent of coffee lingers but he’s already gone.

You almost like those hours alone. You make tea instead of coffee—just to be different—and spread your papers across the table, scouring listings and job boards. You’re trying to root yourself here, in this city you’ve wanted for so long, but the apartment still feels temporary, unsettled, because of him.

Even when he’s not here, you can feel him: shoes by the door, his toothbrush next to yours, the jacket that keeps ending up on the back of your chair.

He comes back around noon, hair damp from rain, hood pulled low. You look up from your laptop as he toes off his shoes.

“You work from home?” His voice is casual, but there’s something about the way it cuts through the quiet that makes you stiffen. “For now,” you say, closing the laptop. He eyes the piles of paper. “For what?”

“Life. A job. Something.” You cross your arms, defensive. “Why do you care?”

He shrugs but doesn’t look away. “Because you don’t leave. You came to Paris, and you stay inside.” You bristle. “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Making this work,” you snap, gesturing at everything—the table, the laptop, the damn apartment. For a moment, he just watches you, head tilted slightly. Then: “Come with me tomorrow. I’ll show you the city.”

You almost say no. You almost tell him he’s the last person you want to spend time with. But there’s something in his eyes, a quiet certainty that catches you off guard. You nod once, just to end the conversation.

Morning comes earlier than you expect. He’s already by the door, jacket in one hand, keys in the other. “Ready?” You hesitate, checking your reflection in the mirror—wind-tossed hair, cheap scarf, nervous eyes—before joining him.

Outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and glistening. Charles leads without asking, steps quick, hood down this time. People glance at him as you walk, a flicker of recognition in some of their eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

The first stop is the Seine. You’ve seen it in movies, in pictures, but standing there now feels surreal. The river is wide and restless, its surface reflecting the pale morning light, framed by arched bridges and buildings lined like sentinels.

Charles stops at the edge, leaning on the stone railing. “Most people start here,” he says quietly.

You join him, fingers resting on the cold stone. “It’s beautiful.” He hums in agreement, eyes on the water. “This is why I stay here sometimes. Monaco’s home, but Paris…” He trails off, shakes his head slightly. “It’s different.”

You glance at him. “Different how?” His gaze shifts to you, steady, unflinching. “It lets me disappear.” Something about the way he says it—soft, almost fragile—sticks with you as you move on.

He takes you through narrow side streets where bakeries send warm, sweet air into the morning. A florist waves as you pass; Charles nods in return. You stop for coffee at a corner café, and he orders for both of you without asking, the words easy in French. You pretend you’re not watching the way people look at him, some pausing like they want to say something but don’t. You sit outside under the awning, coffee steaming in porcelain cups, and watch the city move.

“You do this often?” you ask.

“When I can.” He stirs sugar into his coffee, eyes fixed on the street. “I travel too much to have… normal routines.” You want to ask what that feels like, to live half your life in hotel rooms and airports, but you keep it to yourself.

After coffee, he takes you to a small open-air market. Vendors shout prices over crates of fruit and vegetables, flowers stacked high in bursts of color, fresh bread piled in paper bags. You linger at one stall, fingers brushing a cluster of lavender.

“You like flowers?” he asks. You glance at him, caught off guard. “Yeah. They make a place feel… less empty.” His eyes soften slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Take them.”

You shake your head. “No, I—” He hands a few bills to the vendor before you can finish, passing you the bundle of lavender with a simple, “For your side of the apartment.”

You stare at him, trying to find something to say, but nothing comes.

By the time you return, your feet ache and your scarf smells faintly of lavender. The apartment doesn’t feel as suffocating as it did that morning. You place the flowers in a glass, set them by the window, and stand there longer than necessary, looking out over the street.

Charles watches from the kitchen, leaning against the counter like always, but there’s something quieter about him now. “Thank you,” you say finally, turning toward him. He nods once, no smile, but his eyes linger on you for a moment longer than they should.

That night, lying in bed, you think about how his arm brushed against yours in the market, about how he’d spoken to the vendors with an ease you envied, about how he’d noticed something as small as you liking flowers. You close your eyes and inhale the faint scent of lavender on your hands, telling yourself it means nothing. But deep down, you know it’s starting to mean something.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

The lavender hasn’t wilted yet.

It leans toward the sunlight, delicate stems pressed together in the narrow water glass you’d scavenged from the cupboard. You find yourself looking at it most mornings, tracing each petal as if it might explain how you’ve ended up here—Paris, your childhood dream—and yet still feel unsteady on your feet.

Charles notices.

“You keep looking at it,” he says, voice low from behind you. His tone is soft enough to make you turn, startled. He’s leaning against the edge of the table, hair still damp from his shower, his hand curled loosely around his coffee mug. There’s an imprint from the sofa pillow on his cheek; he hasn’t even tried to fix it.

“It’s nice,” you reply after a pause, turning back to your toast. He hums in response. “You make this place feel different.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the honesty, but he only lifts the mug to his lips and says nothing more.

The day stretches long and still. You spend most of it hunched at the table with your laptop, scrolling job sites and translating French listings that feel slightly out of reach. Charles disappears into the bedroom to take calls, quick and clipped, his French too fast for you to catch.

Even when he’s in another room, he’s present—his voice threading through the walls, the scent of his cologne lingering in the narrow hallway, the memory of his earlier words looping quietly in your mind.

By early evening, you’ve had enough screen time to give yourself a headache. You step out to the balcony, just for air, and find him already there, leaning against the railing with one hand in his pocket, the other resting on cool metal.

“Meeting go well?” you ask gently. He glances over his shoulder, a faint crease between his brows. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” He exhales, eyes turning back to the street. “Six hours driving, twenty minutes talking. I’ve had better days.”

You hum, unsure how to answer. His profile in the low light looks… tired, but not in a way that feels physical. More like something older, heavier.

Dinner is unplanned, just like last time. You’re chopping vegetables when he steps into the kitchen, barefoot, hair falling forward over his forehead. “You cook a lot,” he says, voice quiet enough that you almost don’t hear him. “It’s calming,” you admit. “And cheaper than eating out.”

He nods at the simmering pot on the stove. “Need help?” You hesitate, then pass him the wooden spoon. “You can stir.” The kitchen isn’t big enough for two, so every movement is close. When you reach for the seasoning, your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t apologize this time—just stirs and watches steam curl toward the ceiling.

The pasta is simple, bread still warm from the market down the street. You open the cheap red wine you bought earlier and pour two uneven glasses. At first, conversation is small—how cold the hallway outside gets at night, how the radiator rattles when it’s quiet—but then he starts talking about home.

“Two older brothers,” he says, cutting a piece of bread. “They were faster than me when I was little. I hated it.” You smile faintly. “Did it make you competitive?” His lips twitch. “Maybe.”

“And your parents?” His eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “Maman texts me every morning. Even if I’m halfway across the world, she’ll send something—‘don’t forget to eat,’ ‘bonne chance.’” He laughs under his breath. “She thinks I’ll starve otherwise.”

It makes you smile, too, and for a second, you can almost see what he must’ve been like as a boy. “What about you?” he asks, glancing up. “Family?” You look down at your plate, fingers curling around the fork. “It’s complicated.”

He studies you for a beat, then nods slowly, letting the quiet settle instead of filling it. Somehow, that makes your throat feel tight. The rain starts midway through the meal, a soft tapping against the windows that grows steady and rhythmic. You find yourself watching it, eyes tracing drops sliding down the glass.

When you glance back at him, he’s already standing, pushing the balcony door open with one hand. You join him outside, the cool damp air wrapping around you. Paris hums beneath, neon signs and wet pavement glinting under passing headlights.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” you say softly, leaning on the railing. He’s beside you now, his arm just a hand’s width away. “I’m used to people already knowing everything.”

“I don’t.” His gaze cuts toward you, something unreadable flickering there. “I like that.”

The rain fills the silence. His hand rests near yours on the railing, not touching, but the warmth from his skin reaches you anyway. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t pull away, and somehow that restraint feels louder than any step forward could have been.

Later, you lie awake in bed, staring at the lavender silhouette against the window. You can hear him moving in the living room, the soft shift of his blankets, and you think about that moment on the balcony—how easy it would’ve been to close the space between you, how neither of you did. You pull the sheets higher, trying to slow your thoughts, but all you can feel is that half-inch of air that separated your hands.

And how it suddenly feels like the most dangerous distance in the world.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

The morning starts with the sound of movement, soft and deliberate, as if Charles is trying not to wake you. You hear the scrape of a zipper, the muted clink of keys, and for a moment you lie still, eyes half-closed, pretending not to notice. He’d said he was leaving early, but it still feels different, hearing him leave.

“You’re up,” he says when he notices you leaning on the doorway. His jacket hangs from one arm, and there’s a shadow under his eyes like he hasn’t slept much. didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” You hug your sweater closer to your chest. “Long day?”

“Yeah. Don’t wait up.”

There’s a beat—one where you feel like he might add something else, something softer, but then he only nods and slips out the door. The click is gentle but final.

The apartment feels hollow without him. You move through the small space, straightening things he left out: the crumpled blanket on the sofa, the dented pillow, the empty mug he didn’t wash. It’s still faintly warm when you touch it, and for some reason that detail sits heavy in your chest.

You try to work, but your mind keeps slipping away. After an hour, you close the laptop and pull on your coat. Paris waits, and you need air.

Outside, the drizzle softens into a mist, the kind that clings to your hair and cheeks but doesn’t quite soak through. The streets are alive despite it—cars hissing over wet pavement, shop signs glowing in warm yellows and reds, and the faint smell of bread drifting from every corner.

You wander without a plan. Past cafés where waiters balance trays of coffee and croissants, past narrow alleys that open onto hidden courtyards, past a square where a man plays violin under an awning, the notes sharp and sweet in the damp air.

The city feels like it’s watching you—welcoming you, even—but there’s still an ache. You’d dreamed of Paris since childhood, imagined it golden and whole, yet here you are, feeling something raw in your chest because he isn’t here to see it with you.

At a flower stall, you pause, fingers grazing fresh lavender. Its color reminds you of the small glass on the windowsill back at the apartment, still leaning toward the light. You almost buy more but stop, stepping back, unsure what you’d even do with it.

A bookstore pulls you in next. It’s small, crowded with leaning stacks and old wooden shelves. You lose nearly an hour trailing your fingers along spines, reading titles in French you only half understand. You don’t buy anything, but the quiet warmth of it soaks into you all the same.

You end up at the Seine, leaning on the stone railing, watching the water drag itself downstream. Boats drift lazily, lights reflecting like soft bruises on the surface. Paris looks different from here—less curated, more honest somehow, and for a moment, you feel weightless.

By late afternoon, your legs ache pleasantly, your hair damp from the mist. The apartment feels warmer when you return, faintly scented like coffee and him, like he’s still there in some way. You eat leftovers at the counter, too tired to bother setting the table, and for a second, you almost plate food for him before shaking the thought away.

When the door clicks open that evening, you look up from your phone. He steps in quietly, shoulders slumped, hair damp from the lingering rain. “You’re back,” you say, keeping your voice neutral.

His mouth lifts faintly. “Yeah.”

“Eat yet?” He shakes his head. “No.”

“Sit. I’ll make something.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Sit anyway.” He leans against the counter as you cook, arms folded, watching. The space feels smaller with him here, like every movement carries weight.

“You always look after people,” he says after a moment.

You glance at him, startled. “I don’t think I do.”

“You do.” His voice is softer now, quieter. “Even if you don’t notice it.”

Your hands still briefly before you continue. “Who looks after you, then?” The question catches him, stalling him mid-breath. “No one, maybe,” he admits finally, and it’s such a simple answer that it cuts deeper than it should.

Dinner is simple, steam curling from both plates as you sit across from each other. His eyes flick briefly to the lavender on the windowsill.

“You went out today?” he asks.

“Walked around. It’s beautiful—even in the rain.”

“That’s why I moved here.” It’s the first thing he’s said about why he’s here, and you store it away carefully, like something fragile you shouldn’t drop. The storm outside deepens, thunder grumbling far off. Out of habit, you light the candle from last night and set it between you. “You like candles now?” he teases, mouth tugging into a faint smile.

“Maybe,” you say, chin resting on your hand. “Makes it feel warmer.” His foot brushes yours under the table—not hard, not rushed, just slow enough it can’t be accidental. He doesn’t move it.

You don’t either.

When you both stand to clear the plates, your hands brush, warm and brief. He freezes. You do too. For a second, neither of you move, eyes caught. Then he clears his throat, stepping back. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Later, lying in bed, you can still feel the warmth of his foot under the table, the ghost of his hand against yours, and the quiet weight of that no one, maybe. And you hate how much you want to close that distance—how much you want him.

The storm rolls in fast. You notice it while rinsing dishes, the way the rain taps sharper against the windows, the way the air shifts. Then, like it’s been waiting for the exact wrong moment, the power cuts. Everything falls dark—streetlights outside, the faint glow from the stovetop, all gone at once.

“Again?” you mutter. Charles looks up from where he’s standing near the sofa. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just… déjà vu.”

He’s already moving toward the drawer, pulling out the same candle from the night before. The match flares briefly, and then warm light blooms, painting shadows across his face. You sit at the table, resting your chin on your hand. “Maybe I should start keeping my own candles.”

He sets the candle between you and shrugs. “Could be worse. Could be winter.”

The apartment hums quiet except for the rain, and for a long while, neither of you talk. The flame flickers, catching on the gold flecks in his eyes when he glances at you. Something about the moment feels balanced on a thread—you and him in this tiny circle of light, close but not close enough.

You yawn softly.

“Tired?” he asks.

“A little. Long day.” You push back from the table, meaning to grab your phone, but instead, your head finds the sofa cushion when you sit down. You didn’t plan to close your eyes, but the quiet, the warm candlelight, and the steady sound of rain lull you under faster than you expect.

The last thing you register before falling asleep is the faint shuffle of Charles moving, the candlelight fading, and the soft weight of a blanket being draped over you.

When you wake, the light is pale morning gray, filtering through thin curtains. The blanket still covers you, neatly tucked at the sides, and there’s no sign of Charles in the living room. The power’s back; the clock blinks a stubborn 00:16 in the corner. For a second, you sit there, staring at the empty space where he’d been, feeling something catch in your chest.

By midmorning, the walls feel too small again. You lace up your shoes and step out, letting Paris pull you back into itself. The sky is clear now, washed soft after the storm. The city feels alive in that just rained way, streets glistening under sunlight, everything sharper and new.

You wander without a plan, but this time it feels deliberate—like you’re letting the city take you somewhere on its own.

A café near Rue de Rivoli catches you first. You order a coffee and sit outside, notebook open but barely used, watching people pass by. Parisian mornings look different from the ones you grew up with—there’s a rhythm here, subtle but constant, the sound of voices and cups and bicycle bells weaving together.

You jot down small observations: woman in red beret reading alone, dog wearing rain boots, man balancing six baguettes like magic. The city feels like it’s letting you see it for what it is, not just the version in postcards.

From there, you walk to the Tuileries Garden. It’s still damp, benches dark from the storm, but the air smells green and new. Families stroll along the gravel paths, children tugging impatiently at their parents’ hands, and you sit on a bench watching a group of artists sketching near the fountain. For a while, you imagine you’re one of them—someone who belongs, someone who’s always belonged.

Your path drifts next to the Marais district. Narrow streets curl unexpectedly, offering glimpses of hidden courtyards and small galleries. At one boutique, you almost buy a scarf just because it feels like something a Parisian version of you would do, but you leave it behind, smiling faintly at your own indecision.

The hours slip by without you noticing. The weight you’d felt earlier, that restless hum in your chest, eases with every street you cross, every window you peer into, every conversation you half-listen to in quick, melodic French. By late afternoon, your feet ache again, but it’s a good ache, the kind that says you’ve lived a day fully.

When you push open the apartment door, the space smells faintly like him—coffee, cologne, and something warm you can’t quite name. The blanket from last night still rests neatly folded on the sofa, and your chest tightens when you see it.

Charles comes back just after sunset, hair damp like he’d been caught in light rain again. His eyes flicker briefly to you as he steps inside. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, closing your laptop. “Long day?”

He nods, kicking off his shoes. “You?”

“Wandered.”

His mouth curves slightly. “Good.” He sets his keys down, glancing toward the sofa where you’d slept last night, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he says softly, “Thanks for… the other night. For staying.”

Your breath catches, unsure what he means exactly—staying through the blackout? staying in his space? staying when you could’ve left altogether? But you nod anyway, voice low. “You don’t have to thank me.” For a moment, his gaze lingers on yours, something unspoken passing between you, before he turns toward the kitchen.

Later, after a simple dinner, you find yourself looking at him longer than you should—catching the tired slope of his shoulders, the quiet way he moves through the apartment. You think about the blanket, about the candlelight, about how even silence feels heavier with him here.

And you wonder—how long can two people hover this close without breaking something open?

The sky is pale when you step out, crisp air biting at your cheeks. Paris feels different this morning—not softer, but sharper, clearer, like the city is finally asking you to keep up.

You’ve been telling yourself for days that you’ll look for work, that you’ll stop living like you’re on borrowed time in someone else’s apartment. But you hadn’t expected it to feel like this—like you’re twelve years old again, walking into a new school without knowing where to sit.

The first place is a café two blocks away. A chalkboard menu leans crooked outside, promising espresso and fresh brioche. Inside, warm light spills over polished counters and a girl with short hair and a stern look asks, in French too fast for you to follow, if you’re applying. You nod anyway, and she hands you a form. Your handwriting looks clumsy in the blanks, your French even worse, and by the time you leave, you already know you won’t get a call back.

The second place is a clothing boutique with mannequins that look more like art installations than anything you could afford. The manager smiles politely, explains they’re fully staffed, and tells you to try the market near Rue Mouffetard. You thank her, even though your stomach sinks.

By noon, you’ve collected two paper flyers, three rejections, and a blister forming near your heel. You stop at a bench with a view of the river and press your fingers to your temples. Maybe you’d been naive, thinking Paris would open itself to you just because you showed up.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You hesitate, then answer. “Hello?”

A pause, then a voice: “Is this Mademoiselle?”

“Yes—who’s this?”

“This is François Delatour. Your landlord.”

Your stomach drops instantly. “Oh—hi. Um, yes, hi.”

“I was reviewing some paperwork today and noticed your file still lists you as living alone.” His tone is measured, professional. “But apparently, there’s a Monsieur Leclerc currently residing with you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes, I… we’re sharing the apartment.”

He hums, skeptical but not surprised. “That’s… not how it’s supposed work, you know. The lease is for one tenant.”

“I know, I just—” You cut yourself off, because what excuse can you possibly give? I thought I was moving into an empty place and accidentally met a stranger who lives here?

“Look, I’m not going to throw either of you out,” he says finally, his voice softening. “But you both need to come by the office to sign an updated lease. This week.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good. I’ll expect you both by Thursday.” When the call ends, you just sit there for a second, staring at the phone like maybe it’ll undo the last five minutes.

When you get back to the apartment, Charles is already there, leaning against the counter, reading something on his phone. He looks up when you close the door.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You slip your shoes off. “The landlord called.” His brow furrows. “And?”

“He knows we’re both living here. Accidentally. Wants us to sign a new lease.” Charles sets his phone down, crossing his arms. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

You shrug. “I guess. Just… weird.” His mouth quirks slightly, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head. “How’d job hunting go?”

You exhale, dropping your bag on the sofa. “Don’t ask.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” You sink onto the cushion. “I don’t know what I was thinking, moving here without a plan.”

“You were thinking you needed a fresh start,” he says, simple and even. You look up at him, something unspoken passing between you. It feels like he understands in a way no one else has, like he knows exactly what it means to run from one life to another.

Later, after you’ve both eaten, he offers to show you places where jobs are posted—local cafés, bakeries, little shops he knows. You follow him through winding streets, past shuttered windows and warm-lit markets, the two of you talking quietly about everything and nothing. It’s the first time in days you don’t feel like a stranger here.

By the time you return, your phone buzzes again. It’s a message from one of the cafés: Can you come in tomorrow for a quick chat? You blink at it, stunned. “They want me to come in.”

Charles smiles—a soft, quiet curve of his mouth that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. “See? Not so bad.” You try to match his calm but fail, grinning. “Not so bad.”

When the lights flicker once—just once, like the storm from last night is still lingering—you both pause. Charles glances at you. “Should I buy more candles?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Maybe just in case.” It’s a small moment, simple, but it feels like something shifts in the air. A closeness. A safety you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

That night, lying in bed, you stare at the ceiling, thinking of two things: the way his voice had sounded when he said fresh start, and how tomorrow, for the first time, it feels like you might actually have one.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

The café smells like roasted beans and warm bread, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you leave. You stand near the counter, smoothing the front of your jacket for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to ignore how fast your heart is beating.

A tall man with kind eyes gestures you toward a small table near the back. “Mademoiselle? Please, sit.” You nod, slipping into the chair. Your palms press against your knees to hide their shaking.

He asks questions in French slower than you expect, as if he’s giving you room to keep up: availability, experience, your French fluency. You answer carefully, stumbling only once, and when he smiles at the end, something like relief breaks over your chest.

“We’ll need someone for mornings and weekends,” he says, leaning back. “You think you can handle that?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly, then soften your voice. “Yes, I can.” His smile widens. “Good. You can start next Monday.”

The interview is over quicker than you imagined. You step outside, breathing in the cold air like it’s the first real breath all day. And then you see him.

Charles stands across the street, hands tucked in his pockets, sunglasses failing to hide the way his gaze is fixed on you.

Your stomach flips. “Were you… following me?” He lifts one shoulder, casual. “Just making sure it went well.” You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t have to—”

“Did it go well?” The corner of your mouth twitches. “Yes. I start Monday.”

“Good.” He glances toward the café door like he’s memorizing it, then back to you. “You ready for the landlord?”

You groan softly. “Not really.”

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

The landlord’s office is small, lined with dusty folders and a faint smell of ink. François Delatour, round glasses perched low on his nose, greets you both with a polite but tight smile.

“So.” He flips through a thin file. “Two tenants sharing one apartment meant for one. Quite an arrangement.” Charles shifts in his chair, posture straight. “It was unexpected,” he says smoothly. “But it works for now.”

François hums, clearly unconvinced, and slides a paper across the desk. “This is the updated lease agreement. Both signatures are required. And—” He looks over his glasses. “—this is temporary. I’m moving tenants to correct units as they free up.”

Your fingers tighten around the pen. “Meaning…?”

“You have one week before moving to separate units,” he says simply. “Plenty of time to prepare. To pack away your stuffs.” The words hit harder than you expect. A week. That’s all.

Charles signs first, his hand steady, face unreadable. When he passes the pen to you, your fingers brush, and you feel that same strange static from the candlelit night—but now it’s undercut with something heavier.

When you step out of the office, the evening light paints the street gold, warm and dissonant compared to the weight in your chest. “A week,” you mutter, stuffing your hands into your pockets. “That’s barely anything.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his jaw tight. “It’s not ideal,” he admits. You laugh without humor. “Understatement.” He glances away, down the street, then back at you. “We’ll figure it out.” But you don’t answer, because we’ll figure it out sounds like one of those things people say when they have no idea what to do.

Back at the apartment, you hang your coat and sit on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen. Charles lingers near the doorway, his hands in his pockets again, like he’s weighing whether to speak or leave you alone.

“Hey,” he says finally, voice quiet.

You look up. “You did good today. With the job.” His eyes soften just slightly. “I’m glad you’re staying.” Your breath catches at the choice of words—staying—but you only nod, trying to hold the shape of your own expression steady. “Thanks.”

He hesitates, then adds, “We can look at new places tomorrow, if you want. Just to… see what’s out there.” It’s thoughtful, almost tender, and you feel something deep inside you twist, because you hadn’t realized how much you wanted him to say we at all.

Later, when he’s in the shower and the apartment hums with steam and distant water, you sit at the table staring at the new lease copy. The signatures are bold and final, like an expiration date stamped across everything you’ve started to build here.

A week. Seven days before the walls stop being your shared walls, before you wake up to silence in a different space, before this strange, delicate closeness is disrupted by something as bureaucratic as a housing assignment. You close your eyes and press your palms flat against the paper, as if touch alone could change what’s already been signed.

Charles comes out with damp hair, towel slung over his shoulders. He pauses when he sees the paper still on the table. “Don’t let it bother you too much,” he says gently. You glance at him, the words sticking to the roof of your mouth. How can it not?

But you don’t say it. Instead, you push the paper aside and stand. “I’m going to bed.”

“Night,” he says softly, watching you for a second longer than feels casual. When you lie down, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the thought keeps circling back: one week. One week to make this feel like something that matters, or one week to brace for whatever distance comes next.

And you don’t know which option terrifies you more.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

You don’t call it a date—neither of you says the word—but the weight of it lingers from the start. Charles suggests the market near Saint-Germain, says you should get out of the apartment before the lease and the moving talk crush you completely. You almost refuse, almost tell him you’re fine, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like he needs this too.

So you go.

You bring your old film camera, the one you’d bought secondhand years ago but rarely used. The metal is cool in your hands, the strap soft and worn from disuse. It feels right for today, something about the click of its shutter like proof that you’re here, that you were with him in this city that doesn’t yet feel like yours.

The streets hum with color and life. Vendors call out in warm French, their tables lined with flowers, books, and tiny trinkets that look like they belong in another lifetime. You lift the camera, catching details: a stack of old postcards, a couple laughing over cherries, the curve of Charles’ mouth as he glances back to make sure you’re keeping up. He notices eventually. “You take photos often?”

“Not really,” you say, snapping another picture before lowering the camera. “Just… felt like today should be remembered.” There’s a pause, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than it should. “Good idea.”

At a stall with vintage records, he stops, flipping through vinyl with one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket. He pulls out one with an old Ferrari on the cover, grinning faintly. “You listen to vinyl?” he asks, setting it aside carefully.

“Sometimes,” you say, focusing the camera again and snapping a photo of him from the side, the record still in his hand. He catches you this time, brow raising. “That one’s going to be terrible.”

You grin. “I’m framing it.”

“Please don’t,” he mutters, but there’s a faint flush along his ears. For a moment, you forget about landlords and deadlines and separate apartments. It’s just you and him and the steady rhythm of the city.

You share a bag of roasted chestnuts, the paper warm between your hands, and wander toward the river. The air smells faintly of cinnamon, chestnuts, and the clean scent of cold stone after rain.

He stops at the bridge, leaning on the railing, looking out at the water glinting beneath. “When I first moved here,” he says quietly, “I didn’t think I’d stay long.”

You tilt your head, tucking the camera strap under your chin. “Why’d you stay?” Charles hesitates, the kind of pause that feels deliberate. “I don’t know. It felt… quiet here. People don’t look at me the same way.”

Something about his voice makes you lower your camera. “You like being invisible?” He smiles faintly, eyes still on the water. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s… easier to breathe.”

You nod slowly, understanding more than you expect. “Me too.”

The afternoon slides into golden hour, the city softening, edges painted in amber light. You take a picture of him right then, the sun behind his head, soft shadows cutting across his features. You know—without even seeing it—that it’ll be your favorite frame. He notices your stare, half-smiles, and for a beat too long, neither of you look away.

You end up in a small café near the market, the kind with chipped mugs and handwritten menus curling at the edges. The windows are slightly fogged, the air warm from too many bodies in too small a space. Charles orders coffee for both of you before you can protest, his easy confidence disarming.

Over steaming cups, conversation spills naturally—why you came to Paris, how it was a childhood dream, how terrifying it’s been to actually live it.

He tells you about Monaco, about racing, about how sometimes success feels like carrying something too heavy to set down, even when you want to. “You miss it?” you ask, fingers wrapped around your mug.

“Parts of it,” he admits. “But I like this too.” His gaze meets yours, unwavering. “I like… being here.”

You look down, teeth catching your bottom lip, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m glad you’re here.” The words hang between you, fragile, like the steam curling up from your cups.

When you step outside, the streetlights have come on, pools of amber against the deepening blue of evening. You lift your camera one last time, taking a picture of him under the glow. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tease you—just stands still and lets you.

On the way home, your hands brush once, then again. Neither of you pull away, but neither of you say anything. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s thick with something else, something unnamed but undeniably growing.

When you reach the apartment, he unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you in first. “You had fun?” he asks, leaning on the frame like he’s afraid to step all the way inside yet.

You nod, smiling softly. “Yeah. I did.”

His mouth curves into a small, crooked smile. “Good.” And for one moment—just one—you think he might close the space between you. His eyes flicker to your mouth, subtle but noticeable.

But he steps back instead, hand dragging through his hair like he needs something to do with it. “I’m going to make some tea,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. You nod again, hiding the sting of disappointment behind another soft smile.

Later, lying in bed, you scroll through the pictures you took: markets, postcards, flowers, and him—laughing, sunlit, unguarded. It feels like something’s coming. You just don’t know if it’s the kind that builds or the kind that breaks. You don’t mean for it to feel different, but it does.

The next morning carries something left over from yesterday—soft but charged, like electricity caught under glass. Charles doesn’t mention the outing, doesn’t mention how close your hands were on the walk home or the way he’d looked at you when you stood in the doorway last night.

He just asks, “Coffee?” while already reaching for the kettle, like nothing happened at all.

You answer “Yes,” but your voice is quieter than it should be. The day is gray and threatening rain, the kind that makes Paris feel like an old film reel.

You work on rearranging a few things in the apartment, distracted by every small sound he makes—his footsteps, the clink of his mug, the scratch of a pen against paper as he checks something off a list.

He notices. Of course he does. “You okay?” You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He hums, unconvinced but too polite to press.

When afternoon rolls around, he suggests a walk, says the rain hasn’t started yet and you should take advantage. You say yes before even asking where, and five minutes later you’re on the street again, your film camera slung over your shoulder. The city feels different this time, quieter, like it’s holding its breath along with you.

He takes you toward the Luxembourg Gardens. The pathways are lined with trees gone bare for winter, and the fountains are still, catching the soft gray light. You snap photos as you go—an empty bench, the intricate railing of a bridge, Charles leaning casually against the stone edge of a fountain with his arms crossed.

“Do I need to pose or something?” he teases.

“No, you just need to exist,” you shoot back, lowering the camera.

He laughs, the sound bouncing softly through the still garden. “That’s easier than it sounds.” You sit on a bench overlooking the pond, knees brushing accidentally when you both lean forward at the same time. Neither of you moves back right away.

He looks at you after a moment, his expression softer than usual, like something’s been loosened behind his eyes. “Yesterday was… good.”

You swallow, nodding. “Yeah. It was.”

“You’ve got an eye for pictures,” he says, gaze flicking briefly to the camera in your lap. You smile faintly. “Maybe. You make them easy.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your chest tightens immediately after.

He tilts his head, considering you, and for a second, you think he might call you out on it. But he only smiles—small, private, like he’s keeping it for himself.

Rain starts, soft at first, then steadier. You pull your coat tighter, glancing at him. “We should head back.” He nods, but he doesn’t move for a moment. Then, quietly: “Can I see them? The photos.”

You blink, then hand him the camera. He scrolls through carefully, thumb gliding over each frame. “You took these?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re… good,” he says finally, like he’s surprised. “Really good.”

You shrug, looking away to hide the warmth in your cheeks. “Just practice.” He gives the camera back, eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, and then finally stands. “Come on. Before it gets worse.”

By the time you’re back at the apartment, rain is steady, pattering against the windows in soft waves. Charles hangs his coat and runs a hand through damp hair, glancing toward you. “Tea?”

You nod, slipping your camera onto the counter. “Sure.” While the kettle heats, silence stretches—not uncomfortable, but full, like both of you are waiting for something to break it. He’s the one who does. “You know,” he says slowly, “this is the part I’ll miss.”

You look up. “What part?”

He gestures vaguely—between you, the small kitchen, the faint whistle of the kettle. “This. Just… you here.” Your heart stumbles. “It’s not like I’m leaving Paris.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But it won’t be the same.” You watch him for a long beat, the warmth from the stove curling around your skin. He meets your eyes, something unguarded flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you step closer.

He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek, and you swear you stop breathing. His hand lingers for just a second, warm and careful, and then—

He leans in.

The kiss is slow, deliberate, like he’s asking every second if you want this too. His lips are warm, softer than you expected, tasting faintly of the tea he’d just made. You kiss him back, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself because the floor feels unsteady, because everything feels different.

When you finally pull back, your breath stutters, and so does his. “Okay?” he murmurs, still close enough that you feel the word against your mouth.

You nod, unable to speak, eyes dropping briefly to his lips again. He exhales, relief softening his shoulders, and steps back just enough to give you space but not enough to undo what just happened.

The kettle whistles, sharp and ridiculous, breaking the moment. He chuckles quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we still need tea.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Yeah. Guess so.”

But your hands are still trembling, and when you look at him again, you know something’s shifted permanently.

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

You wake to the sound of rain again, steady and soft against the windows, the kind of morning that makes the city feel slowed down, blurred at the edges.

Charles is already awake, leaning against the counter when you step into the kitchen, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up immediately when he hears you, and for a moment, there’s that same flicker—like last night hasn’t quite settled into memory yet, like it’s still hovering between you both.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

You smile back, soft. “Morning.”

There’s an almost shy edge to the way you move around each other. His hand brushes yours when you reach for a mug, and neither of you pull away this time. It’s nothing, technically—just skin on skin—but the warmth of it makes your stomach tighten. He catches you looking and smiles faintly, like he’s thinking the same thing.

The rest of the day passes slower than usual. There’s no market or garden trip today, no reason to step out in the drizzle, so you spend it in the apartment—Charles at the table with his laptop, you curled on the sofa with a book you don’t really read.

You’re hyperaware of him. Of his movements, his voice when he takes a call, the way his eyes drift toward you every so often when he thinks you’re not noticing. And maybe you are noticing, because every time it happens, you feel something stretch and pull in your chest, like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.

By afternoon, you’re in the kitchen again, this time both of you standing by the sink, rinsing out mugs. He’s close—closer than necessary—and when he reaches over you to grab a towel, his chest brushes your shoulder.

You freeze for half a second.

He notices, because of course he does. His voice is low when he says, “Sorry,” but he doesn’t move too far back. You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine, not really, because your pulse is doing something ridiculous, and his eyes linger on you just long enough for your breath to catch.

“Want to get out for a bit?” he asks later, breaking whatever weird tension is filling the apartment. “Even just for coffee.” You nod too fast. “Yeah, sure.”

The café is busy but warm, soft golden lighting making the windows glow. You take a corner table, your film camera resting between you because you’d grabbed it instinctively on the way out.

Charles eyes it. “You’ve really been using that a lot.” You grin. “Might as well. Who knows when I’ll have time later.”

His jaw tightens at that, a subtle flicker you catch immediately. Later. Like the word reminds him of the clock ticking down on the lease, the week almost gone.

The conversation drifts easily—travel, music, the ridiculousness of some Paris drivers—and every so often, his hand brushes yours on the tabletop. Once, he doesn’t move it away immediately, leaving his fingers resting lightly on yours for a breath too long.

You don’t move either. On the walk back, the drizzle has turned to mist, cool against your face. He slips a hand to the small of your back when someone rushes past too close, guiding you gently out of the way. It’s instinctive, protective, and it sends a warm ripple down your spine.

“You okay?” he murmurs when you glance up at him, his hand still there like he hasn’t realized it hasn’t moved. You nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

But inside, you’re not sure if you mean because of you or in spite of you.

Back at the apartment, the air feels heavier. He’s quieter now, moving around with his usual easy calm, but there’s something in his eyes whenever he looks at you—something thoughtful, almost conflicted.

You sit on the sofa, camera in your lap, turning it over in your hands. “Can I take one more?” you ask, surprising yourself with the question. He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Sure.”

You lift the camera, and he doesn’t pose, doesn’t joke. He just looks at you, and you know without even clicking the shutter that this one will feel different.

Later, after dinner, you both end up on the sofa, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s presence. A movie plays quietly, subtitles scrolling, but neither of you are really watching.

Your leg brushes his once, and you don’t move it away. He shifts slightly, his arm resting along the back of the sofa near your shoulders, and it feels deliberate. Like he wants to pull you in but isn’t sure he’s allowed to—not yet, not when there’s still that fragile line between you.

When the credits roll, he turns to you, eyes searching. “You tired?”

“Not really.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth for half a second—quick, but enough to make your pulse spike—before he looks away again. “Me neither.”

It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and then he says, “I don’t want this to feel rushed.”

You blink. “This?” He gestures slightly between you. “Whatever this is. I don’t want it to be because we only have a week.”

Later, when you finally crawl into bed, you lie there staring at the ceiling, every nerve lit up, every thought circling back to the way his voice sounded—quiet and a little desperate—and how much you wanted to lean in when he looked at you like that.

The final week doesn’t feel rushed the way you expected. It feels like something else—like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

You and Charles fall into an easy rhythm, sharing space like it’s second nature now. There’s no hesitation in how he brushes past you in the kitchen, no awkwardness when you reach for something at the same time and your fingers tangle briefly before pulling away with quiet smiles.

There’s still that weight of change hanging over you—separate units, different apartments—but it no longer feels like an ending. It feels like transition.

The landlord arrives midweek, confirming the move. “One week,” he says, smiling faintly. “You’ll be in separate units—more space, yes?”

You nod, glancing at Charles. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s reading your face for clues. When the landlord leaves, Charles steps closer, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re okay with this?”

You take a breath, then nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”

His mouth tilts into a small, relieved smile. “Me too.”

The next few days are simple in the best way—cooking together, walking to the café on the corner, evenings spent on the sofa talking about things you never thought you’d tell anyone.

You tell him about why Paris had been your dream since childhood—the art, the language, the way it felt like a place where people reinvented themselves without permission.

He tells you about why he’d come here, too—needing somewhere quiet, somewhere that didn’t look at him like he was just his career, somewhere he could just be Charles for a while. Somewhere he could be with you.

On the second-to-last day before the move, he suggests something different. “Walk with me,” he says, tugging lightly at your sleeve as you pass him in the hall. You raise an eyebrow but follow.

He takes you along the Seine, evening settling in soft and gold. You bring your film camera, of course—you can’t seem to stop bringing it these days—and catch shots of the bridges, of street musicians, of him when he isn’t looking.

At one point, he notices. “You’re going to run out of film just taking pictures of me.”

You grin. “Worth it.”

You end up at a quiet spot along the water, the streetlamps reflecting in the ripples. He leans on the railing, looking out at the city, and for a while, neither of you speak.

When he finally looks at you, it’s different—steady, certain. “I don’t want this to end just because we’re in different apartments.”

You swallow. “It doesn’t have to.”

His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours easily now, like you’ve both stopped pretending this isn’t what you want.

Back at the apartment, you’re both quiet, but it’s not tense. It’s full. Full of everything you don’t even need to say. You sit together on the sofa, legs brushing, shoulders touching, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing hesitant about it. He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek, and leans in.

The kiss is soft, slow, and unhurried—like it was always supposed to happen this way. When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours. “We’ll figure it out, chérie. However messy it gets.” You smile, eyes fluttering shut. “I know.”

The next day, moving day, isn’t heavy. It’s… weirdly light. He carries a box into his new unit two doors down, and when you meet him in the hall afterward, you’re both smiling like idiots. “Dinner at mine tonight?” he says casually, shifting the box in his arms.

You grin. “Only if I can bring wine.”

“Deal.”

Later, after the boxes are unpacked and the wine is open, you sit together on the floor of his new apartment, backs against the wall. It’s quieter here, still half-empty, but it already feels like somewhere you’ll spend a lot of time.

He looks over at you, eyes soft. “You know, I’m glad the landlord messed up the first lease.”

You laugh. “Me too.”

When you finally head back to your apartment that night, he walks you to the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice warm. You lean up on your toes and kiss him again, quick but sure. “Goodnight, Charles.” He grins as you close the door, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels right.

The rain returns that night, pattering against your window, and you fall asleep smiling—knowing this city is yours now. And so is he, in all the quiet, imperfect, wonderful ways that matter.

[archivesdotcom]

my masterlist

cl16

the small apartment in paris

everything after us

more coming soon :) requests are open, so feel free to share your thoughts, comments, and feedback.