Paris, 1992 | Lee Heeseung

Chapter One

There were a multitude of reasons as to why you left.

The first and most evident reason being that you could not stand your husband for the life of you. It was not hard to sit through meeting after meeting, pretend to enjoy yourself, and offer coffee to the clients that came in and out of the hotel conference room. However, it was mentally draining.

The second reason being that it was already seven thirty in the evening, and you'd rather walk to get dinner, alone, than suffer through room service with him.

It's not that you hated your husband - he just proved to be intolerable most of the time.

You assume that was why you found yourself trailing down the rain-soaked cobblestone path, eventually spotting a twenty-four-hour cafe on the corner of Rose and 14th Arrondissement. You find a seat outside, under a small gazebo shielding the lone table from the rain and take a moment to enjoy the soft music being played over the restaurant speakers.

Truth be told, you have no idea where you are in respect to the hotel. The trek has been long, but the cafe is nice, quiet, and you enjoy the atmosphere of it. The greying sky, the quaint tables and flower bushes lining the circumference of the grounds. It's pretty, you think. Calming.

You're still skimming the menu when the waiter comes - a tall, dark-haired man - and you feel yourself beginning to panic when he finally stops in front of your table.

He's beautiful - devastatingly so. It takes you a minute to process him.

The rain is sprinkling down, gathering gently in the wisps of his hair, and it almost glitters entirely against the darkness of his strands. The nearby lampposts reflect onto his features, and his poised cheekbones are highlighted in a way that make him look ethereal. If it wasn't for the white button up adorning his slender frame, and the black apron secured around his waist, you'd be convinced he was dropped down in front of you from heaven itself. The man's eyes are still looking down at you, eyelashes long and irises practically sparkling in innocence. It's all too much for you, and when he finally, finally speaks, you're painfully aware of your heartbeat thrumming dangerously against your ribcage.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Voudrais-tu quelque chose à boire?" (Hello, Miss. Would you like something to drink?)

You're already vexed, from the second he uttered a single syllable. Mentally, alarms were going off inside your brain, for you knew he spelled nothing but danger.

You're too stunned to even think about forming a response in French, and stupidly, the only word you're able to mutter back is, "Water?" With a nod at your own question.

The man studies your face at your response, and then tilts his head to the side slightly as he registers your words. He doesn't show any sign of judgement as he scribbles onto the notepad in his hands, and then he meets your eyes again, mouth quirked up in a gentle smile. His entire atmosphere exudes a certain softness, which makes you feel comfortable as you meet his eyes again. He looks kind. For the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to unabashedly smile back. He doesn't look like he means harm.

After a second, you very obviously glance down at his name tag. And, god, even his name is pretty.

Lee Hee-seung.

You look back up when he speaks again, and his features look warm. He's standing halfway under the gazebo, and the sprinkle of rain is starting to dampen his hair, just a bit. The streetlights cast a golden glow onto his already smooth skin, and you feel like you're dreaming when his voice meets your ears again. His voice sounds like honey, pooling throughout your bloodstream every time a word leaves his lips.