PARIS ALWAYS FELT DIFFERENT IN WINTER, LIKE THE CITY HAD TURNED ITSELF DOWN A NOTCH. The cold clung to everything — the stone buildings, the river air, your eyelashes — and your breath came out in soft, uneven clouds as you walked with your hands buried deep in your coat pockets. You were old enough to wander alone without a plan, young enough to romanticize it. The streets glistened from an earlier rain, shop windows glowed amber, and the city hummed quietly around you, restrained and beautiful, like it knew it didn’t need to try. You were distracted, head tilted slightly upward, watching the way the sky melted into pale gray above the rooftops, when it happened. You bumped into someone. Not hard — just enough to make you stumble half a step back, heart jumping as reality snapped into focus. A soft oh left your lips instinctively, and you looked up, already forming an apology. He was cute in that effortless, unfair way. Black, thick curls framed his face, full and slightly wild, like they never quite listened. His skin was warm against the cold palette of the city, his coat perfectly styled without looking like he’d tried, and when he smiled — cheeky, sweet, a little surprised — it felt like the street got brighter by accident. There was something calm about him too, something grounded, like he belonged wherever he stood. He blinked once, then laughed softly, lifting his hands a little. “No, that’s on me,” he said easily. You were still catching your balance, still registering the way his eyes lingered just long enough to feel intentional, when his expression shifted — gentle, attentive — and he asked, “Hey… are you okay?”