Mornings in Paris didn't feel real.
The sky outside Kayo's attic apartment turned the color of cream and rose, and Takara stirred in the sheets still warm with sleep and Kayo's body heat. The city buzzed faintly beneath them—bakeries opening, birds flitting past windowsills, the early clatter of a train two blocks away.
Kayo lay beside him, hair a mess, breath steady, one hand resting near Takara's ribs.
Takara turned his head slightly. "Hey."
Kayo made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.
"You're awake."
"I've been awake," Kayo murmured, eyes still closed.
"How long?"
"Long enough to memorize your breathing."
Takara's lips curved. "Creep."
"Romantic," Kayo corrected.
They lay in silence a little longer.
Then Kayo opened his eyes, met Takara's, and asked, "What now?"
It was a soft question. Honest. Unadorned.
Takara propped himself up on an elbow. "You mean, like, the next hour or… the next forever?"
Kayo shrugged. "Either. Both."
"I think," Takara said slowly, "we eat something. Then maybe kiss against a bookcase like we're in a black-and-white movie. Then go see something stupidly romantic. Like the Seine. Or that bridge with the locks."
Kayo blinked. "You want to put a lock on a fence."
"I want to kiss you on a fence while other people pretend not to watch."
Kayo's lips twitched. "And the next forever?"
Takara looked away, quieter now. "I don't know."
It was the truth.
Because as much as they'd burned for this reunion, the timeline ahead was murky. Kayo still had months left in his internship. Takara still had his degree to finish. No one had said the word move or future or us in any concrete way.
So they held the now like it might shatter if squeezed too hard.
Later, they wandered the city like tourists who'd been lovers in another life.
Kayo wore his coat unzipped. Takara wore a scarf so bright it made two strangers smile at him as he passed.
They drank hot chocolate at a stall near the river and shared a croissant while pigeons gathered at their feet.
"I feel like I'm cheating time," Takara said suddenly, licking sugar from his thumb.
Kayo raised an eyebrow.
"Like we skipped a chapter," Takara continued. "Like the messy middle part—arguments and miscommunications and insecurity—it's all waiting somewhere. But for now, we're in the sweet spot."
Kayo glanced at him. "And what if we're not skipping it? What if it's just… not done with us yet?"
That night, they went back to the apartment.
Takara threw himself on the bed, humming a love song off-key. Kayo sat by the window, sketching silently.
It had become their rhythm—soft domesticity wrapped in silence and lingering glances.
But something about Kayo's quiet felt different tonight.
He wasn't drawing Takara.
He wasn't drawing at all.
Just scribbling. Erasing. Scribbling again.
"What's wrong?" Takara asked softly.
Kayo paused. "Nothing."
"Liar."
Kayo set the pencil down and turned toward him. "I got an offer. From the gallery."
Takara sat up.
"For what?"
"To stay. Full-time. After the internship ends."
The words landed like bricks.
"Oh."
"They said my style has 'market traction.' Whatever that means."
Takara forced a smile. "That's great. Really."
Kayo frowned. "That's not how your voice usually sounds when you're happy."
"I am happy. You deserve that."
"But…?"
Takara didn't answer right away.
He stood, crossed to the window, and looked out at the skyline—soft yellow lights blinking like tired eyes.
"But if you stay here, and I go back home…" he said slowly, "what happens to us?"
Kayo came up behind him. "That's what I don't know."
They stood in silence.
A train passed in the distance.
Takara finally said, "I don't want to become the thing you remember fondly but never visit again."
"You won't," Kayo whispered.
"You don't know that."
"I do," Kayo said firmly. "I know myself. I know how hard it was to let you go once. I wouldn't survive it again."
Takara turned. His voice cracked. "Then tell me what happens next. For real."
Kayo took a breath. "We find a way."
That night, their kisses were slower.
Less fevered.
More searching.
Kayo's hands trembled when he touched him.
Takara didn't ask why.
Because he already knew.
They were making love like it might be the last time before life got in the way again.
Morning came with soft rain and soft silence.
Kayo was gone from the bed.
Takara sat up, hair a mess, and found a note on the pillow.
Went to the gallery early. Back soon. Don't leave.
Please.
He waited an hour.
Then two.
Then, when Kayo still wasn't back by noon, he texted.
No reply.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
By late afternoon, worry sank its claws into him.
He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed an umbrella, and walked to the gallery address Kayo had mentioned.
It was a small place tucked behind an ivy-covered wall, almost hidden from the street.
Inside, soft lighting bathed paintings in golden tones. A receptionist looked up.
"Bonjour," she said. "Vous cherchez quelque chose?"
Takara's French was terrible.
"Um… Kayo Tsukishiro? I'm looking for him. He said he'd be here."
The receptionist blinked. "Ah. Non. Il est parti."
Takara's stomach dropped. "He's gone?"
She nodded. "Oui. Il a quitté la résidence ce matin. Définitivement."
He left… for good?
Takara staggered back onto the rainy street, lungs aching.
He pulled out his phone.
Still no messages.
Still no missed calls.
Kayo had disappeared.
Without a word.