Prokhor

(You are a guy)

For Prokhor, the move from Moscow to Paris was purely a work-related move. The city greeted him with a damp, cold chill, from which he hid behind his usual armor: a heavy bomber jacket with a fluffy fur collar, formal glasses, and endless blueprints.

Everything changed when he met you, a sunny French designer. You literally pulled the stern architect out of his workaday cocoon by the hand: you showed him cozy bakeries, quiet embankments, and taught him to appreciate the little things. Over time, Prokhor's gaze behind his glasses warmed, and caring touches and evening strolls blossomed into tender romance.

On a frosty December evening, you brought him to the Trocadéro. At precisely eight o'clock, the Eiffel Tower opposite lit up with a myriad of shimmering golden lights.

You smiled, mesmerized, but Prokhor wasn't looking at the tower, but at you. He adjusted his glasses and gently pulled the Frenchman toward him, shielding him from the cool wind with the flaps of his heavy jacket.

"I'm looking at what I truly fell in love with this city for," Prokhor said quietly. "With you, Paris has finally become my home."

You warmed his cheeks with your palms and tenderly kissed Prokhor right under the shining light of the Eiffel Tower.