Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One: Croissants and Cobblestones
Paris embraced us like a lover.
The city was soft and grey, wrapped in a morning mist that clung to the cobblestones and blurred the edges of the buildings. The air smelled of fresh bread and coffee and something floral I couldn't name—lilacs, maybe, or roses climbing the iron balconies of the old apartments.
Taehyun's hand was warm in mine.
He'd been quiet since we landed—not the cold quiet of secrets, but a softer quiet, the quiet of a man who was finally allowing himself to breathe. His shoulders were less tense, his jaw less tight, his eyes softer as they traced the curves of the ancient streets.
"You're staring," I said.
"I'm observing."
"You're always observing."
"You're always worth observing."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. I couldn't help it. The city was beautiful, and he was beautiful, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something that might have been joy.
The hotel was a dream.
Tucked away on a quiet street in Le Marais, it was old—centuries old—with exposed wooden beams and creaking floors and windows that opened onto a courtyard garden. The walls were painted a soft, faded blue, the color of the sky just before dawn, and the bed was piled high with white linens and velvet pillows.
"This is ours?" I breathed, stepping inside.
"For the week."
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
"You're repetitive."
"I'm honest."
I turned to face him, my hands sliding up his chest, my fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "What's the plan, Mr. Kim?"
"Breakfast," he said. "Then a walk along the Seine. Then lunch. Then a nap."
"A nap?"
"A nap." His hands settled on my hips, pulling me closer. "Jet lag is real, Angel."
"I'm not tired."
"You will be."
"I'm never tired when I'm with you."
His eyes darkened. "Careful."
"Or what?"
He kissed me—soft and slow, a promise rather than a demand. When he pulled back, we were both breathing a little harder.
"Breakfast," he said again.
"Breakfast," I agreed.
---
The café was small and crowded, tucked between a bookshop and a florist, its red awning faded by years of sun. We sat at a table by the window, watching the city wake up around us—the man walking his poodle, the woman buying a baguette, the children racing each other to the boulangerie.
"You're staring again," I said.
"I'm observing."
"You're obsessed."
"I'm in love. There's a difference."
I hid my smile behind my coffee cup.
The croissants arrived—golden and flaky, served with little pots of jam and butter and a dusting of powdered sugar. I broke off a piece, watching the steam rise from the soft interior, and held it up to his lips.
"Open."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You fed me in the hospital. Let me feed you in Paris."
He opened his mouth.
I popped the croissant in, watching his eyes close, his lips curve, his throat move as he swallowed.
"Good?" I asked.
"Good."
"Better than hospital food?"
"Everything is better than hospital food."
I laughed—bright and unexpected, the sound echoing off the old walls.
He watched me.
"You're beautiful when you laugh," he said.
"You're beautiful when you exist."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Love doesn't make sense."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
---
The Seine was grey and green, the water moving slow and heavy beneath the stone bridges. We walked along the quay, our fingers tangled together, our shoulders brushing with every step. The bookstalls were closed—it was too early—but I stopped anyway, peering through the metal grates at the rows of old paperbacks and yellowed postcards.
"Do you read French?" he asked.
"I don't remember."
"Fair point."
I turned to face him, walking backward, my hands still in his. "Teach me something."
"Teach you what?"
"A French word. Any word."
He thought for a moment. "Amour."
"Amour?"
"Love."
I smiled. "That's easy. Teach me something harder."
"Je t'aime."
"What does that mean?"
He pulled me closer, his hands sliding around my waist, his forehead dropping to mine.
"I love you," he said. "Je t'aime, Angel."
My heart stuttered.
"Say it again."
"Je t'aime."
"Again."
"Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime."
I kissed him.
The river flowed past us, grey and green, and the city woke around us, and I kissed him like I was trying to memorize the taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the way his hands felt on my back.
"Je t'aime," I whispered against his mouth.
"You're learning fast."
"I have a good teacher."
---
The afternoon melted into evening.
We walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg, past the fountains and the statues and the children sailing toy boats on the pond. We climbed the steps of Montmartre, our legs burning, our lungs aching, and stood at the top, looking down at the city spread out below us like a map.
"Worth it?" he asked.
"Worth it."
We bought macarons from a little shop near the Sacré-Cœur—pistachio and rose and salted caramel—and ate them on a bench, watching the sun sink toward the horizon.
"Taehyun?"
"Hmm?"
"Why did you bring me here?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because you asked."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching the sky turn pink and gold.
"I'm glad you brought me," I said. "Even if you won't tell me why."
"I'll tell you someday."
"Someday?"
"Someday." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "When you're ready."
"I'm ready now."
"You're not."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're still afraid of the dark."
I stiffened.
"I'm not—"
"You are." His arm tightened around me. "You wake up every night, reaching for me, even in your sleep. You hold on like I'm going to disappear. You're afraid, Angel. And that's okay."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"I know."
"Then what am I afraid of?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Losing me," he said finally. "Losing yourself. Losing the life you're still learning to love."
I didn't answer.
Because he was right.
---
Dinner was intimate.
A small restaurant, hidden in an alley, with candlelight and red wine and a menu written in French I couldn't read. He ordered for both of us, his voice low and confident, and the waiter nodded and smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.
"When did you learn French?" I asked.
"In school."
"You went to school?"
"Everyone goes to school, Angel."
"I didn't."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
I shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't remember school. I don't remember anything before the hospital. Maybe I went. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I'm secretly a genius and I just forgot."
He reached across the table, his hand covering mine.
"You're a genius," he said. "In every language. In every life."
"That's very romantic."
"I'm very romantic."
"You're very annoying."
"You're very beautiful."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.
The food arrived—soupe à l'oignon, rich and savory, the cheese pulling into long, golden strings. Then steak frites, the meat so tender it fell apart at the touch of a fork. Then crème brûlée, the sugar crust cracking beneath my spoon, the custard warm and silky on my tongue.
"I'm going to gain ten pounds," I said.
"Worth it."
"Easy for you to say. You're built like a god."
He raised an eyebrow. "A god?"
"A very handsome god. With very good bone structure."
"Keep talking."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
He laughed, and the sound filled the little restaurant, warm and bright and full of something that felt like joy.
---
The Eiffel Tower sparkled.
We stood on the Pont Alexandre III, the golden statues glowing in the lamplight, the Seine dark and shimmering below. The tower was in the distance, a lattice of light against the night sky, and every hour, on the hour, it exploded into a cascade of glittering stars.
"It's beautiful," I breathed.
"It's just lights."
"It's not just lights." I turned to face him, my hands on his chest, my eyes on his. "It's hope. It's magic. It's the promise that something beautiful can exist in a world full of darkness."
"Angel—"
"I want to remember this." My voice cracked. "I want to remember standing here, with you, watching the lights. I want to remember the way your hand feels in mine. The way your voice sounds when you say my name. The way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world."
"You are."
"I know." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "That's what scares me."
"Don't be scared."
"I can't help it."
"Then be scared with me." He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. "Be scared, and be brave, and be mine. That's all I ask."