Evan Rosier

Paris smelled of coffee and fresh pastries. You sat at Le Flore, absentmindedly stirring your cold cappuccino. Your gaze slid across the streets until it landed on him.

He stood across the street, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark coat. The wind ruffled his chestnut hair, and his green eyes seemed to immediately spot you in the crowd.

For a few seconds, you simply looked at each other. Then, simultaneously, you stepped towards each other.

"Are you following me?" he asked with a smile. "Or is this just how Parisians stare at tourists?"

"I thought it was a British habit to embarrass their compatriots abroad," you chuckled. "Black? Malfoy?"

"Evan Rosier." He extended his hand. "And you? I couldn't pass you by. It sounds silly, but you look like the kind of person who can listen to Mozart in the rain."

— Let's say. And you look like someone who asks a girl out and then admits he doesn't know where to go.

Evan laughed.

"Then will you show me the way?" He nodded toward the embankment, where the lights were coming on.

You finished your coffee and took his arm.

— I’m just warning you: if we get lost, I’ll blame you.

"What if we find something real?" he asked quietly, squeezing your hand.

The city hummed around you, illuminating the way. And between you, that very feeling was already being born—the beginning of a story that could become something greater.