Paris greeted them with a slap of cold air, the smell of wet concrete, and an airport announcement in rapid-fire French that sounded more like a threat than a welcome.
Noa blinked at the sign above them: "Bienvenue à Paris."
She turned to Ren. "Are we sure this is the right Paris?"
Ren squinted. "It's not the one in Texas."
They were both wearing the same clothes they'd put on 18 hours ago in Tokyo—hoodies, neck pillows, and the unmistakable aura of regret for booking the cheapest flight available.
Their production company had set up everything: hotel, driver, local fixer.
But as they stood outside the airport with their luggage, shivering in spring rain, it became abundantly clear…
No one was coming.
—
"Try calling the fixer," Noa muttered, hugging her suitcase like a space heater.
Ren tapped his phone. "Voicemail."
"Email?"
"Inbox error."
"Pigeon?"
"Too expensive."
She glared.
He shrugged.
Finally, after 30 minutes and 2 croissants of despair, they gave up and got into a suspiciously cheap taxi driven by a man named Jean-Luc who blasted Daft Punk and missed four turns in a row.
Welcome to Paris.
—
The hotel was not what they expected.
Ren squinted at the brass plaque. "This says 'historic boutique.'"
"Historic as in… has plumbing from the 1800s?"
The receptionist gave them one key. One. Singular.
"Sorry," she said in halting English. "Only one room reserved. But big bed!"
Noa and Ren exchanged the kind of glance usually followed by an apology or a lawsuit.
Ren cleared his throat. "We'll make it work."
Noa pointed a finger. "You get the left side."
"What's wrong with the right side?"
"That's the *good* side."
Ren huffed. "How can a bed have a good side?"
She didn't answer.
She just walked in first and threw her bag onto the right side with the precision of someone who had fought too many invisible battles already.
—
The room was *very* French.
Which meant:
- Bed too small for two people who don't cuddle.
- Bathroom where the shower head points directly at the toilet.
- Balcony with a stunning view of... someone else's laundry.
But they were too tired to argue.
They both collapsed fully clothed, shoes still on, limbs overlapping like tangled power cords.
"I can't feel my spine," Noa mumbled.
"Then you're sleeping right," Ren replied.
They slept for six hours, woke up confused, and ordered overpriced cheese via room service because neither of them had the energy to Google "how to not get scammed in Paris."
—
At 2AM, jetlag hit like a truck.
Ren was scrolling local TV channels (all dubbed, all very emotional), while Noa tried to dry her socks with a hairdryer.
"I think we're sharing a room by accident," she said finally.
"Or destiny," he replied.
She threw a sock at him. "Do *not* Paris me."
He caught it and grinned. "Too late. We're in the most romantic city in the world."
"Which is exactly why I don't trust anything here," she muttered. "Sidewalks are cute. Buses are cute. Trash cans are cute. That's suspicious."
He stretched and yawned. "We've been here for twelve hours and already insulted plumbing, cheese, and romance."
"Yeah, and?"
He leaned his head back. "I like it here."
Noa paused.
Looked at him in the half-light.
Messy hair. Eye bags. Hoodie too big.
He looked like someone you accidentally fall asleep beside on a long train ride, then remember later for the rest of your life.
"I'm not sleeping next to you," she said, voice dry.
Ren shrugged. "We already did."
She blinked. "No, we didn't."
"Oh really?" He pointed to her arm. "Whose jacket is that?"
She looked down.
She was wearing his hoodie.
She had no memory of putting it on.
Noa groaned and buried her face in a pillow. "We're doomed."
Ren laughed. "Bienvenue à Paris."