Archive of Our Own

The sunlight crept lazily across the wooden floorboards of the small Paris apartment, painting golden lines across the white rug in Jennie's bedroom. A light breeze drifted in through the open window, making the lace curtains flutter and casting soft shadows on the far wall. Jennie sat at her keyboard, her back straight, her fingers drifting slowly over the keys as she worked through a melody that had been sitting in her head for days. It wasn't finished, not even close, but it had taken shape in small pieces—quiet, emotional notes that never sounded quite the same when she tried to write them down. The room smelled faintly of jasmine tea and sheet music, and the city outside was unusually quiet, as if it too was still stretching its arms after a long night.

She paused, listening. The rest of the apartment was silent. Her father hadn't come home the night before, and although it wasn't the first time, Jennie had found herself glancing at the clock more than usual that morning. He had texted her sometime around midnight. At the office. Long night. Nothing unusual, nothing emotional. Just like always. Still, she worried. It wasn't like he ever said more than necessary, but there was something about his silence this time that sat uncomfortably in her chest.

The front door creaked open just past ten. Jennie stopped playing, her fingers hovering over the keys as she waited. She heard footsteps—slow, heavy—and then the familiar sound of shoes being kicked off without care.

She stood and made her way down the hallway, her cardigan drawn tight around her shoulders. Her father was in the living room, setting his worn leather satchel on the floor with a grunt. His blazer was half-draped over one arm, and he looked like he hadn't slept at all. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar slightly stained with old coffee. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened since she saw him last.

"You didn't come home," Jennie said, not bothering to hide the accusation in her voice.

He sighed and rubbed at his temple. "I was working."

"Must be some case," she replied, folding her arms. "What happened? Someone cheating on their cheating spouse?"

He gave her a tired look but didn't respond. Instead, he turned toward the kitchen, muttering something about needing coffee. Jennie trailed after him.

"You're really not going to tell me?"

"It's nothing you need to know," he said. "It's messy."

"You say that every time." She leaned against the kitchen doorframe, eyeing his satchel. "I bet the file's in there."

"Jennie."

"I'm just curious." She pushed off the wall and walked over to the bag before he could stop her. "Come on. What's the big deal?"

"Don't." His voice was firm now. He stepped between her and the satchel, hand gripping the strap. "This one's not for you to see."

Jennie blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice. She held her hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Calm down. No need to go full detective mode on me."

He didn't laugh. He just looked tired, more than usual, and something in his expression made her pause.

She smiled anyway, stepping past him and giving his side a playful pinch. "Still getting soft," she teased.

"Still stronger than you," he muttered, pulling the bag closer.

Jennie returned to her room, but this time she didn't sit at the keyboard. She stood by the window, watching the sunlight shift on the rooftops. Her father's tension clung to her thoughts like a fog. He always kept his work separate from home, always told her she didn't need to know. But today, he wasn't just distant—he was worried.

By the time Jennie stepped back into the kitchen, the air smelled of toasted bread and black coffee. The sound of the bathroom door opening told her her father was finally out of the shower, and the heaviness he had worn earlier seemed to have lifted just slightly. The bedroom fan whirred faintly behind him as he emerged, hair damp, shirt fresh, and his mood softened by the steam and soap. He muttered something about needing breakfast, but Jennie barely heard him. She was perched on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs gently, his camera already in her hands.

She flipped through the images, the shutter click echoing softly with every swipe. "Who's this, dad?" she asked, tilting the screen toward the light. "And her? I've never seen these faces in your usual files. These look... new."

He stopped mid-pour, eyes narrowing. "Jennie," he said with that fatherly warning that usually meant put that down.

She ignored it. "She looks like a model. Or a politician's wife. The lighting in this one's really dramatic—did you take this outside her hotel room?"

"Give me that," he said, setting down the coffee pot and striding over to her. He plucked the camera from her hands, not angrily, but with the exasperation of a man who had been through this song and dance a dozen times before. "You shouldn't be going through this."

"It's not like I haven't seen worse," she said, leaning back on her palms. "Half your job is spying on people who don't know they're being watched. And besides—these aren't even scandalous. Not one of them is naked or sneaking out of a hotel at 2 AM. They're just... interesting."

He let out a breath, wiping his hand over his face as if trying to decide how much energy he had left to argue. "That's not the point. This isn't your world. You shouldn't get used to seeing people at their worst. And definitely not like this."

Jennie pouted, mock-offended. "Dad, I'm twenty-four, not four. You treat me like I still need permission to use scissors."

"You live in your head too much," he muttered, scrolling quickly through the images before turning the camera off. "It's better you stay in your world—music, art, whatever that is. This stuff is too messy for you."

She rolled her eyes and stole a piece of toast from his plate. "Oh please. I've read every one of your case files, start to finish. You think I don't know your stories inside out?"

His eyebrows lifted. "You've read my reports?"

She chewed, then nodded proudly. "Yup. All of them. From the Dutch princess and the football player—remember that one? They met in Prague, swore it was fate, but she was married and he was playing semi-pro in Spain."

He looked at her with disbelief. "That was a disaster. She faked a pregnancy, and he had a gambling problem."

Jennie held up a finger, ignoring the interruption. "Then there was Michelle and David—God, I rooted for them. High school sweethearts, lost touch, reunited after twenty years—"

"They were both cheating on their spouses with each other," he cut in. "And David was bankrupt."

Jennie smirked, reaching for another piece of toast. "Every romance has its flaws, Dad. Doesn't mean it's not romantic."

He gave her a look that said he'd already lost the argument. She was smiling, carefree, even as she casually dissected heartbreak over buttered bread. And maybe that's what scared him—how unshaken she was by the things that still weighed heavily on him. She saw stories. He saw people falling apart.

"Not everything's a love story, Jennie," he said, more gently this time. "Most of the time, it's just people being lonely and making bad choices."

"Exactly," she said, hopping down from the counter. "That's what makes it human. And sometimes"—she pointed toward the camera still in his hand—"it's not about who's right or wrong. It's about what they were feeling when they made the mistake."

He didn't respond. He just stared at her for a moment longer, trying to find the line between being a protective father and accepting that his daughter might understand more than he wanted her to.

She turned to refill her tea, humming softly. But her eyes kept drifting to the corner of the table, where the strap of the leather satchel still rested.

She was intrigued to find out what this one holds.

Her father lingered there beside her, one hand still resting on her shoulder as he looked at her like he was remembering a different version of her—smaller, softer, easier to keep safe. Then, with a deep sigh, he reached up and gently ruffled her hair again, this time slower, more thoughtful. Jennie tilted her head, groaning with a soft laugh.

"There you go again," she muttered, swatting at his hand. "Seriously, you're ruining the whole look."

He didn't smile this time. His eyes softened, creased with quiet affection and something older—worry, maybe. The kind of worry that had no name but sat deep in his chest every time she walked out that door alone.

"You're too good for this cruel world, Jennie," he said quietly.

Jennie froze just a little, hearing something different in his voice this time. She turned to face him fully, the mug of tea forgotten in her hands. "Where's this coming from all of a sudden?" she asked, trying to keep it light.

He looked down, eyes fixed on the floor like he was searching for the right words. "When your mother was dying," he said, voice low and steady, "I promised her I wouldn't be strict with you. That I'd let you live your life... be free, make your own choices. She wanted that. She believed the world was still beautiful. That you'd find the good in it."

Jennie's smile slowly faded. She hadn't heard him talk about her mother in a long time—not like this.

"But sometimes," he continued, his voice growing tight, "you scare me, kid. The way you throw yourself into people... how you trust so easy, how you see light in places I only see shadows. You think that's strength, and maybe it is. But me—" he paused, then reached forward and wrapped his arms around her without warning, pulling her close, "—I just see you walking into storms, thinking you won't get struck."

Jennie stood still, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her hands gripping the sides of his shirt. His embrace was warm, familiar, a reminder of nights he'd carried her to bed, of mornings spent zipping up her backpack before school. But now it was heavier, a little more desperate. Like he knew he couldn't protect her from the world she was already stepping into.

He kissed the top of her head, gently. "You scare me," he said again, barely above a whisper.

Jennie let her arms slip around him too, holding him back. "You don't have to protect me from storms, Dad," she said quietly. "Just be there when I come back, okay?"

He nodded against her hair, not trusting himself to speak.

And for a moment, they stood like that—two people clinging to a fragile peace in a quiet kitchen, under the lazy Sunday sun, pretending the world outside hadn't already started turning with secrets neither of them yet understood.

~

The door clicked softly behind Jennie as she stepped inside, her body finally relaxing now that her final exam was behind her. The weight that had clung to her shoulders for months—the tension of late-night rehearsals, theory papers, critique sessions—had all melted away with the last note she played in her performance hall that morning. She could finally breathe without guilt. She didn't need to impress anyone anymore. Music was hers again, and that feeling was something she couldn't quite put into words.

She walked into the hallway, unzipping the case of her keyboard with a lazy flick, and paused when she heard voices from the living room. Not just her father's low, tired drawl, but another—harsher, heavier, anxious. Jennie tilted her head and crept closer, the hallway wall cool against her back as she listened.

"I mean, from this angle, it looks like her," the stranger muttered, frustration thick in his voice. "But then again, it doesn't. Her hair looks different. The jawline's not clear. The quality of the shot's making it worse."

Jennie peeked around the corner for just a second. The man—mid-40s, a little tense in his shoulders—was bent over the coffee table, holding a magnifying glass over one of several photographs. Her father sat calmly across from him, flipping through his signature worn-out black notebook.

"I wouldn't bring it to you if I wasn't sure, Antonio," her father said, his voice steady. "It took me three weeks to track her pattern. Your girlfriend has been meeting this woman for the past couple of weeks. Regularly. It's not a guess. It's a fact."

Antonio ran a hand through his hair. "And you're absolutely sure it's not just a friend thing?"

"She doesn't do 'just friends,'" her father replied. He tapped the edge of a photo gently, sliding it back toward Antonio. "Her name is Roseanne Park. Twenty-three. From Seoul. Millionaire businesswoman. Built her luxury brand consultancy from the ground up before she even turned twenty-one. Her company's big in luxury branding. Clients all over Europe, especially Paris."

Jennie blinked. Twenty-three? That was close to her age.

Her father continued, voice even and matter-of-fact. "Roseanne works hard. Doesn't slow down until she hits burnout. When that happens, she flies to Paris. Stays in lofts, books expensive suites. Hits the clubs, goes to beaches. She's a socialite with a sharp edge. She flirts, drinks, spends weekends tangled up in fun. Mostly girls. Always beautiful, never permanent."

Antonio looked visibly more shaken now. Jennie could feel his tension from the hallway.

"I tracked your girlfriend's phone logs, travel records, and location pings. They align perfectly with Roseanne's itinerary. Same clubs. Same nights. Same hotel floors. Your girlfriend didn't just bump into her, Antonio. She's been seeing her."

Antonio slumped back on the couch, defeated. Jennie pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening around the strap of her keyboard bag. She'd read her father's case files for years, but this one... this felt messy. And atrocious.

The name echoed in her head: Roseanne Park.

A woman who built her empire before she could legally rent a car, who worked until she broke and played like she didn't care if the world was watching. Jennie couldn't picture her face, not yet—but the image was already taking shape in her mind. Dark eyes, sharper smile, a storm just beneath her skin.

And now, somehow, her name was tangled into Jennie's quiet little life in Paris.

Antonio's hand hovered over the photograph a moment longer, his eyes narrowing, jaw tight. Then he spoke—his voice low and uneven.

"Are they meeting tonight? Do you know where?"

Jennie barely breathed. From behind the hallway wall, her pulse quickened.

Her father, still seated across from him, gave a reluctant nod. "Based on her previous patterns... yes. She's staying at Hôtel Plaza Athénée. Suite number 116. She usually prefers to meet in her suite—private, no prying eyes. Around 8 p.m. tonight."

Antonio leaned back slowly, but there was no calm in his movement—just tension, boiling underneath the surface. "So it's definite?"

"I don't do maybes," her father said. "It's her. Your girlfriend's been seeing Roseanne Park. I've confirmed it enough times to be sure."

Then came the silence. Not long, but weighted.

Antonio's hand dipped into his coat and came out with something cold and unmistakable. A pistol.

"She played me," he said, quietly, fury bleeding into every word. "I gave her everything. I'm not going there to talk—I'm going to end this once and for all."

"Antonio—wait," her father stood up quickly, his hand stretched out. "Don't do something reckless. Put that thing away. You don't want to spend the rest of your life—"

But Antonio didn't wait to hear the end. His chair scraped back hard against the floor. He stormed toward the door, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the grip of his weapon.

Jennie, startled but quick-witted, backed up and positioned herself by the wall, eyes widening just in time to feign surprise as the man strode past her without sparing her a glance. The door slammed shut.

Her father came out a second later, rubbing his temples. He noticed her standing there and frowned.

"When did you get home?"

She blinked. "Like... five seconds ago? And? Who was that?"

Before he could answer, his phone rang, sharp and urgent. He checked the caller ID and cursed softly under his breath.

"Jennie, go to your room," he said, already turning toward the hallway to grab his coat. "Don't come out. Not tonight."

"But—"

"No, Jennie. Please. Just stay in your room."

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him in a rush.

Jennie stood frozen for a moment, his urgency still echoing in her ears. She didn't go to her room. Her feet took her the opposite way—into the living room. The table was just as Antonio had left it. The camera. The files. The photographs.

She picked one up. Roseanne's image stared back at her. Not clear, not staged—just a moment caught mid-laugh in some club or rooftop bar, her head tilted, lips parted like she was sharing a secret.

There was something in her smile. Not arrogance. Not mischief. Something unguarded, human. And somehow, Jennie knew—deep in the part of her gut that had never steered her wrong—that this woman wasn't who they thought she was.

And she didn't deserve to die tonight.

Jennie tightened her grip on the photo. She didn't know how yet, but she was going to find her. To warn her. To save her.

Jennie slipped out into the fading light, her coat pulled tight around her as a chill brushed against her bare arms. The streets of Paris buzzed quietly with the usual Friday lull—families at cafés, couples strolling hand in hand, an accordion playing somewhere in the distance. It all felt distant and wrong, as if the world had no idea someone's life might be hanging by a thread tonight.

She walked briskly down the sidewalk, her boots clicking against the cobblestones, until she reached the nearest phone booth tucked beneath a flickering streetlamp. The moment she stepped inside, the cold glass encasing her from the outside world, she hesitated. Her hand hovered over the receiver.

She could just call the police.

Tell them someone was about to get killed. Give them the hotel, the suite number, the time. That would be the sensible thing to do. But then—

What if her father found out?

He already thought she was too soft, too reckless. He'd held her like she might break that morning. If he knew she was sticking her head into what might become a murder case, he'd lose his mind. And Jennie didn't want to burden him with that fear—not when he was doing everything he could to protect her.

Still, Roseanne's face surfaced in her mind—soft features, caught mid-laugh in that blurry photo. She didn't even know her, but something about the expression haunted her. Carefree, unguarded. Trusting.

And that woman might be dead by morning.

Jennie cursed under her breath, then yanked and grabbed the receiver and dropped a coin into the slot with shaking fingers before she can chicken out. When the call connected, she spoke in quick, panicked French.

"Quelqu'un va se faire tuer ce soir!" (Someone's going to get killed tonight!)

The words rang out louder than she meant, and she cringed immediately. She sounded ridiculous—like she was playing detective, not actually reporting a possible homicide.

"Pardon, qui est-ce?" (Excuse me, who is this?) the operator asked gently, the kind of tone people used for prank calls or nervous tourists.

Jennie froze.

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

She couldn't tell them her name. She couldn't give them the full details. If they traced the call, informed her father—no, it would unravel everything.

Without another word, she hung up. The dial tone buzzed accusingly in her ears.

"Damn it," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass for a moment before stepping out into the open air again.

Her breath fogged slightly in front of her as she hurried back up the street, half-running now. She had to think, had to do something else—something quieter, something smarter. If she couldn't warn the police without risking exposure, then maybe the answer was in the files.

Back upstairs, she slipped inside the apartment silently, grateful her father hadn't returned yet. She padded across the living room and dropped to her knees by the coffee table where the case files still sat. Her fingers moved quickly now, flipping through photos, receipts, notes, and hotel itineraries.

Somewhere in this stack of quiet surveillance was a clue. An address. A phone number. Something she could use.

If no one else could protect Roseanne Park tonight—then Jennie would.

Jennie sat still for a moment, the quiet hum of the apartment buzzing in her ears. Her fingers were still curled around the receiver, her knuckles pale from how tightly she'd been gripping it. The receptionist of the hotel picked up, and Jennie came with a lie that she is Roseanne's friend and the words echoed in her head—Ms. Park is not in her room, at the moment. She slowly placed the phone back in its cradle, swallowing down the string of curses burning at the tip of her tongue.

She glanced at the wall clock. 7:30 p.m.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes until Antonio would be waiting—armed and furious, either pacing inside suite 116 or already lurking nearby. Jennie knew that look in his eyes when he stormed out. It wasn't the look of a heartbroken man seeking closure. It was the look of someone who had already made up his mind.

She stood frozen in the middle of the room, torn between logic and instinct. She wasn't a cop. She wasn't trained. Hell, the most dangerous thing she'd done in the past year was busking too late in the metro station. But what was she supposed to do now? Just sit here and wait to read about Roseanne's death in the morning papers?

Her pulse thudded faster the more she thought about it. That name. That face. Roseanne Park. A woman Jennie had never met, whose laugh she had only imagined from a still photo, and yet... there was something there. Something that tugged at her in a way she couldn't explain.

She chewed on her bottom lip, pacing the floor once, twice, as her brain battled with her heart.

She could call the police again. Use a payphone farther away. Anonymously report it with clearer details. But what if they arrived too late? What if she hesitated too long, and all they found was blood and regret?

Jennie stopped pacing.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her coat on the hook by the door. It was a reckless idea. No, it was insane. But staying back and doing nothing—that would haunt her worse than anything that could happen tonight.

Her jaw clenched as she grabbed her coat and slid into her sneakers. She hesitated by the door, her hand resting on the knob.

"Okay. You're not going to fight him," she muttered to herself. "You're just going to warn her. That's it. You're just going to find her. Say something. And get the hell out."

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, her chest tightening with every step.

Please don't be too late, she thought. Please.

Roseanne swirled the wine in her glass with casual elegance, the rich red catching the candlelight as she eyed Josephine across the small dinner table. "If I knew Paris had women like you," she said with a teasing smile, "I might've moved here permanently."

Josephine laughed softly, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Is that a compliment or a threat to your Seoul empire?"

Roseanne raised her glass. "Who says I can't build empires in both cities?"

Their glasses clinked, eyes meeting in a lingering gaze before Josephine leaned forward. "Shall we take this upstairs?"

They stood in unison, wine forgotten, the air between them thick with unspoken intent as they turned toward the bedroom. But the moment they crossed into the hallway, the mood shattered. Three masked men, dressed in black, stood inside the suite like shadows made flesh.

Roseanne froze. "Jo," she said calmly but firmly, "leave. Now."

"What's going on—"

"I said leave!" Her voice cracked like a whip. Josephine bolted for the back door, barefoot and terrified, as Roseanne turned to the intruders, her hands balling into fists.

"Who the hell are you?"

The answer came in the form of a punch—brutal and direct—slamming into her stomach. Roseanne staggered backward, doubling over, breath knocked from her lungs. Pain laced through her core. She spat out a curse, eyes blazing as she straightened slowly, blood pounding in her ears.

"Well, You picked the wrong suite tonight."

She slid into a ready stance, low and grounded. Her eyes scanned their movements—no weapons drawn yet, just fists and intimidation. Good. She could handle that.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Jennie stepped out of the elevator, her heart hammering. She hurried to Suite 116 and rang the bell. Nothing. She rang again. No answer. She leaned in, pressing her ear against the polished wood, and heard... something. A crash? A grunt?

A door down the hall clicked open. A man in a white robe, fuming and muttering under his breath, stormed out. Jennie darted past him and caught the door before it could shut completely. She slipped inside the vacant suite.

The first thing she saw was a woman sprawled nude across the king-sized bed, soft snores escaping her lips, sheets tangled around her like a lover's embrace. Jennie blinked and looked away immediately. "Désolée," she muttered under her breath and made a beeline for the balcony.

She pushed the glass door open, the Parisian air sharp against her cheeks. The city glimmered below. She clutched the railing and stared at the neighboring balcony—Roseanne's.

One deep breath. "Don't think," she whispered. "Just jump."

She backed up, sprinted forward, and leapt.

Her feet landed with a dull thud on the next balcony, knees bending to absorb the impact. No heels. Thank God. She scrambled to her feet, crouched by the glass door, and peeked inside.

Her breath caught.

Roseanne—fighting three masked men, holding her own like something out of a spy film. She ducked, punched, kicked, using the furniture as leverage. A coffee table shattered under someone's weight. A lamp flew. One attacker went down but got up again just as fast.

Jennie's eyes widened as a heavy vase sailed through the air—straight toward her.

She gasped and tried to move, but it struck her temple, not full force but enough. She stumbled back, hitting the wall behind the thick curtain. The velvet swallowed her, and then darkness did the rest.

~

The door slammed shut behind the last masked man, his body skidding across the hallway tiles from Roseanne's brutal final kick. Her chest heaved with exertion, fists trembling from the raw adrenaline coursing through her veins. The suite was a mess—shattered glass, overturned furniture, splintered wood—but she was still standing, and that counted for something.

But before she could take another breath, a slow, chilling clap echoed through the open door. Roseanne spun around, only to see a tall man step inside with unsettling calm, a gun dangling from his fingers like a toy. His face twisted with rage, but his movements were precise. Controlled.

Antonio.

Roseanne lifted both her hands in immediate surrender, her posture changing in an instant. She recognized that look in his eyes. This wasn't about theft. It was personal.

"This is the end," Antonio said, his voice low and seething. "No more of this little game. No more lies. I'm ending it—ending you and your precious little love affiar you have with my girlfriend."

Her stomach tensed, eyes sharpening. "Look, I don't know what you are talking about," she said, steady despite the fear pooling beneath her ribs.

Antonio's eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb with me. I know she's here."

A flicker—barely noticeable—moved in the curtains. Roseanne didn't glance that way, but Antonio did.

"Oh?" he sneered, the corner of his mouth twitching as he walked slowly across the room. "She's hiding from me now?" He moved toward the curtain with dramatic flair. "She think that'll save her?"

He grabbed the fabric and yanked it open.

There, half-slumped behind the heavy velvet, lay not Josephine—but a different young woman entirely. Her dark hair spilled across the carpet, a faint trail of blood at her temple, her face ghostly pale in the golden light of the suite.

Antonio blinked, then turned to Roseanne. "Wait... Is this your suite?"

Roseanne nodded cautiously. "Yes, Suite 116. Hôtel Plaza Athénée."

He scratched his head, squinting down at Jennie, then back at Roseanne. "And... you're Roseanne Park?"

"Yes."

Antonio's brows furrowed deeper, confusion settling in with growing embarrassment. "But then... this must be my girlfriend. Unless... that's not her?" He crouched beside Jennie, tilting her face gently. "That's not her," he muttered, standing up again. "My girlfriend's way prettier than this girl."

Roseanne, despite the sting in her ribs and the faint metallic taste in her mouth, raised an eyebrow. "Is she?."

Antonio gave a long sigh, stepping back and placing the gun gently onto the shattered remains of the coffee table. "Shit," he muttered. "I really thought... Damn."

Roseanne crossed her arms, stunned. "You stormed in here, gun blazing, knocked out a stranger, threatened to murder me, and now you're realizing... you have the wrong woman?"

Antonio offered a tight, sheepish shrug. "Look, I did some digging. Photos, locations, movements. All signs pointed here."

She gave him a long look, somewhere between disbelief and simmering humor. "You mean stalking."

"Let's not split hairs," he replied.

He turned to leave, picking up his coat on the way out. "Sorry about the, uh... home invasion." He paused. "And the three men. I didn't tell them to rough you up, for what it's worth."

Roseanne stepped forward, still wary. "And the girl?"

"I swear I've never seen her before in my life." He scratched his temple again. "I think she just... got caught in the wrong suite."

With that, he exited, whistling under his breath like it was just another Tuesday night mishap. Roseanne stared at the door long after it clicked shut.

What the hell just happened?

She turned back to the curtain. The girl—whoever she was—hadn't moved. Roseanne approached carefully, crouching beside her. The cut on her temple wasn't deep, but the angle she'd collapsed in made it worse than it looked. Gently, Roseanne slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her carefully into a bridal hold.

She was surprisingly light.

Carrying her through the wrecked living space and into the bedroom, Roseanne laid her down on the bed, pulling the sheets back and tucking them over the girl's legs. Her face was pale, lashes dark against her cheekbones, and her lips parted slightly with shallow breaths.

Roseanne sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. Who was she?

She pressed two fingers to the girl's wrist—steady pulse. That was good. She reached for a wet towel from the ensuite and dabbed at the blood gently, hoping to clean it before it dried.

"I don't know who you are," Roseanne murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair off the girl's forehead. "But you just risked a lot to be here tonight."

She sat back, exhausted. The aftermath was starting to settle in. Her ribs ached, her wrist throbbed, and now she had an unconscious stranger in her bed and a wrecked suite that looked like it had hosted a cage match.

But she also had questions.

Who was this girl? How did she know something was going down tonight? Why did she jump across balconies and get herself nearly killed in the process?

But for now, she was going to watch over this stranger... until she woke up and gave her answers.

The chaos had settled into silence. The suite, though battered and bruised like its owner, stood still in the aftermath. Roseanne exhaled deeply, the weight of adrenaline and fractured calm sinking into her bones. With the unconscious girl resting safely in the bedroom, she finally reached for the landline on the side table and called the hotel reception.

"Bonsoir, this is Suite 116. There's been a break-in. Three intruders. They're gone now, but I need someone to come and assess the situation," she said, her voice even but tired.

The receptionist, flustered and apologetic, assured her that security and a manager would arrive shortly.

The woman—no longer just a stranger now, but someone who had risked something—lay curled under the sheet, her breathing steadier. A faint smear of dried blood still marred her temple. Roseanne went to the cabin beside her vanity and pulled out a first aid kit, careful not to rattle anything too loudly. She padded back and perched at the edge of the bed.

Opening the kit, she reached for antiseptic wipes and a fresh bandage. With practiced fingers, she gently began peeling back the earlier one. Just as the gauze lifted, the girl's eyes fluttered open.

Roseanne paused, surprised. The girl blinked a few times before slowly sitting up, one hand bracing her weight. Her expression was calm, too calm for someone waking in a stranger's bed after a hit to the head.

"You're awake," Roseanne said quietly, cautious but not cold.

The girl scanned her face, eyes flicking briefly to her arms, collar, then to the side of her temple. "Are you hurt?"

"What?"

"You were fighting." Jennie's voice was scratchy, laced with weariness but resolute. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing, and inspected Roseanne closely, as though looking for bruises, cuts, anything. "No injuries?"

Roseanne blinked. "I'm fine... thanks to someone."

The girl exhaled and swung her legs over the side of the bed, about to stand. "Then I should leave."

"You can't just—wait." Roseanne stood and stepped in front of her. "Who are you? And how did you know someone was coming for me?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me."

But the girl was already brushing past her, walking into the living room. Roseanne followed, her bare feet padding softly against the cool floor. "At least tell me how you found my suite."

Jennie stopped, hand on the doorknob. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "You're from Seoul, right?"

Roseanne's brows lifted, a slow, impressed smile spreading on her face. "Yes... and how exactly do you know that?"

The girl turned fully now, lips tugged in a small, tired smirk. "You wear Seoul like a scent."

Before Roseanne could decipher what that even meant, Jennie reached for the handle again. "Wait," Roseanne said, stepping closer, her voice softer. "I'd like to know more about you. Maybe... we can meet again? Coffee or dinner, maybe?"

Jennie frowned at her, more surprised than annoyed. "Seriously?"

Roseanne shrugged, arms folded. "You broke into my suite, saved me from masked intruders, and fainted behind my curtains. The least you can do is let me buy you a croissant."

Jennie rolled her eyes and turned to open the door, but before her fingers could twist the knob, it clicked open from the outside. The door swung inward abruptly.

Jennie stumbled, losing balance from the sudden motion—and fell backward straight into Roseanne's arms.

Time paused.

Her back met Roseanne's chest. Roseanne's hands instinctively clasped her waist to steady her. The proximity—warm breath, fast heartbeat, the soft press of skin against silk—caught them both off guard. Jennie froze. Roseanne inhaled sharply, her lips parted in stunned stillness.

Jennie's heart stuttered.

For a moment, she forgot entirely how to breathe.

Standing in the doorway, looking both bemused and amused, Antonio raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"Don't let me interrupt," he drawled. "I just forgot my little friend."

He strolled in with casual arrogance, scooped the weapon off the coffee table, and made a finger-gun gesture at them. "Cute moment. Hope it ends better than mine did."

And just like that, he was gone again, whistling down the hallway.

Roseanne let out a long, irritated sigh and muttered under her breath, "Crazy bastard."

Jennie pulled away from her slowly, face flushed. "I'm—uh..."

"I didn't mind," Roseanne said quietly, half a smile dancing at her lips.

Jennie took a step back, brushing her hair behind her ear and avoiding her gaze. "I need to go."

"You could stay."

Jennie shook her head, still dazed. "I really shouldn't."

"At least your name," Roseanne called gently as Jennie walked to the door. "Just your name?"

Jennie paused, her hand on the handle again, but she didn't turn. "Good night, Roseanne."

And then she slipped out the door.

Roseanne stood in the silence that followed, alone in her shattered suite, watching the spot where the girl had stood, heart still echoing louder than it should. She didn't know who she was or where she came from—but she knew one thing for certain.

She was going to find her again.

~

The hinges of the cupboard creaked faintly, almost accusingly, but Jennie ignored it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the file free—sleek and thick with papers—and quickly slid the door shut again. The clock in the hallway struck eight. Her father's run usually took forty minutes. That gave her twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes if he stopped to talk to the old woman who sold roses near the bakery.

She bolted up the hallway, her bare feet padding silently on the wooden floor, and slipped into her room like a thief. The door clicked shut behind her, and with one sharp flick of her wrist, she locked it. Her heart beat faster—not from guilt, but anticipation.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, the file heavy in her lap. The name on the label seemed to glare at her: Park, Roseanne. Jennie exhaled slowly, then opened it.

The first few pages were already familiar. Surveillance photos—Roseanne in a silk dress, stepping out of a sleek car. A few were taken at night, others under daylight, but all captured her with that same air of untouchable elegance. She had the kind of beauty that didn't need posing, the kind that caught light and turned heads even when blurry.

Jennie pushed those aside. She'd seen them before. Now she wanted the truth. The dirt. The reason her father had cursed under his breath every time Roseanne's name came up.

She dug deeper into the file, fingers flipping through glossy paper and rough clippings. Newspaper articles, most in French, some in English, one in Italian. She skimmed the headlines:

"Heiress Leaves Another Trail of Hearts in Cannes"
"Too Rich to Care? Park Roseanne Caught in Midnight Brawl"
"Park Spotted With Three Dates in One Week"

There were grainy photos of Roseanne with various women. Laughing, arms thrown around shoulders, holding hands, champagne bottles, club exits, hotel balconies. One caught her in a nearly-kiss with a woman Jennie recognized—an actress from a Netflix series. Another showed her tossing her head back in laughter, lips parted, mid-spin on a rooftop.

Jennie blinked.

So her father was right. Roseanne was a playgirl. The kind that lived in scandals and tabloid ink. She didn't date people—she collected them. No wonder she had flirted the way she did, asking Jennie to dinner before she even knew her name. That's just how she operated. A new city, a new name, a new girl. Jennie could already see it—the whisper of her own identity reduced to a line in a column:
"Unidentified Parisian girl seen in Park's suite post-incident. Mystery lover?"

Jennie grimaced.

She shoved the photos aside and dropped her head into her hands. "That's atrocious," she muttered. "Completely... unthinkable."

But her eyes were drawn back to the glossy photos. One had slipped loose and lay face-up beside her leg. Roseanne on a terrace somewhere, wind in her hair, a wine glass in hand, looking over her shoulder at someone outside the frame. Her smile wasn't flirtatious in that one—it was soft. Unrehearsed. Like someone had caught her in a real moment of joy before she could hide behind performance.

Jennie stared.

That smile. It did something to her. Something that made her chest ache a little. She picked up the photo slowly, her thumb brushing against the corner.

"No," she said aloud, a bit too harshly. "Don't be stupid."

She leaned back against the headboard and forced herself to breathe. Paris is big. Roseanne will go back to Seoul soon. You'll never see her again. You'll avoid her. You'll forget the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes didn't flinch even when a gun was pointed at her. That's it. The end.

But her brain betrayed her.

She remembered the way Roseanne had looked at her—genuinely curious. Not mocking, not teasing. How her arms had instinctively caught her when she'd stumbled backward, how her breath had hitched like Jennie's had. That hug wasn't fake. That heartbeat against her ear wasn't performative.

Jennie buried her face in her pillow.

She needed to get Roseanne out of her head. This was temporary. A collision of lives that should never have crossed in the first place. Roseanne belonged in tabloid photos and high-end villas. Jennie belonged in her quiet cafés with unfinished sheet music. Whatever had happened that night—the jump, the fight, the hug—it didn't mean anything.

She would stay strong. Avoid Roseanne. Forget the dinner invite. Forget the lingering glances. Forget the warmth of her hands.

Jennie stood, gathered the file back into order, and slid it under her bed.

She wasn't going to end up in some column as Roseanne Park's next "unlucky muse."

Not now. Not ever.

But as she pulled the curtains open and looked out at the sunny Parisian morning, she whispered under her breath, "God, I hope she already left." Because if Roseanne was still in Paris—still walking these streets, still sipping coffee somewhere under the same sky—it was only a matter of time before the city stopped being big enough to keep them apart.

~

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me—"

The curse left Jennie's mouth louder than she intended, startling a tourist couple nearby who looked up from their romantic photo by the fountain. Jennie didn't even bother to offer an apology. Her eyes were fixed ahead, disbelieving, horrified, and mildly annoyed at the unfair humor of the universe.

There she was.

Roseanne Park.

Wearing black leggings that hugged her long legs, a gray cropped tank top damp with sweat in all the right places, her hoodie tied casually around her hips, and her hair pulled up into a messy ponytail that still managed to look perfect. She was jogging along the Seine like she belonged in a perfume ad, earbuds hanging from her neck and that maddening smile plastered across her face as if the world wasn't complicated, as if nothing ever went wrong in her life.

Jennie stood frozen on the gravel path. The sun was setting, casting golden hues over the water, and the air smelled like fresh pastries and summer roses. The city of love, they called it. Paris. The place for soulmates, for chance encounters, for passionate strangers who locked eyes on a bridge and never looked back.

And yet all Jennie could think was:This city is cursed.

Everywhere around her were couples. Kissing on benches, laughing under trees, tangled up in hugs that looked warmer than any summer sun. Normally Jennie would've ignored it. But tonight, every hug she saw made her skin itch. It reminded her of that hug—the one she hadn't been able to forget. The one with Roseanne's arms around her, the faint scent of perfume mixed with blood and adrenaline. The moment she'd frozen, forgotten to breathe, and let herself feel something terrifyingly intimate.

She hadn't even hugged her own father this morning, despite how confused he looked when she gave him only a grunted greeting. He hadn't asked, but his raised brow said enough.

She shook herself out of it and turned on her heel.
She could still escape. She'd take the next street, maybe go back home and run on the treadmill like a normal, anti-social, emotionally-unavailable human being.

Too late.

"Hey! Bunny cheeks!"

Jennie winced so hard it hurt her teeth.

The nickname hit her like a slap—not because it was offensive, but because it came with that unmistakably fond, playful tone that Roseanne wielded so casually. She turned around slowly, already regretting her choice to leave the house today.

Roseanne was jogging toward her, slowing to a walk as she approached, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with exertion. There was something effortless about her, like she belonged here, in motion, beneath the golden sky.

"Bunny cheeks?" Jennie asked flatly, eyebrows raised.

Roseanne shrugged. "You've got them. The cheeks. All puffed up when you're mad or suspicious. It's adorable."

Jennie rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own spine. "Don't call me that."

"I could go with cupcake, but that feels too sweet for you."

Jennie started walking again, refusing to engage.
Roseanne, undeterred, matched her pace. "What happened to you that night? You just disappeared. I found you unconscious, you know. There was blood. I carried you to the bed. You could at least say thank you."

"I didn't ask for help," Jennie muttered.

Roseanne blinked. "So you're the kind of person who prefers to bleed out in secret?"

"I'm the kind of person who doesn't want to be followed by cameras just because I spoke to you twice."

That shut Roseanne up.

Jennie glanced sideways. Her words had landed—she could see it in the way Roseanne's lips pressed together, the faint tension at the corner of her mouth. Jennie almost felt bad. Almost.

Roseanne's voice, when it came, was softer. "So that's what you think. That I'm a walking headline."

Jennie didn't answer.
Instead, she kept walking, faster now. But her mind was already spiraling. What would happen if she got close to Roseanne? Would her life be swallowed up by tabloid gossip? Would her father ever take her seriously again? Would she become just another name in the endless list of girls Roseanne had held and left behind?

"I'm not coming tomorrow," Jennie said abruptly.

Roseanne tilted her head. "To what?"

"The jog. The park. Wherever you'll be."

Jennie didn't wait for a response. She turned sharply on her heel and sprinted off down the path, her ponytail whipping behind her, the sound of her footsteps drowning out whatever Roseanne might've said next.

But faintly—just as the river curved and she disappeared behind a hedge—she heard Roseanne call out:

"Are you sure about that?"

Jennie didn't answer. She ran harder, like she could outpace the way her heartbeat betrayed her.

~

Jennie knew she was going to regret this the moment her foot crossed the park gate.

The sun had just begun to stretch its rays across the pale pink sky, warming the dew-slick grass and casting long shadows across the path. The air was fresh, cooler than she expected for a Paris morning, carrying the faint scent of distant patisserie, crushed leaves, and something floral from a nearby garden. It would've been perfect—peaceful even—if not for the fact that she was deliberately walking into the very thing she'd promised herself to avoid.

She tugged her black bandana lower over her forehead, its fabric snug against her skin, and let her long dark hair fall loose around her shoulders. The contrast of her dark jeans and fitted black hoodie made her feel a little more grounded, more guarded—more like someone who definitely did not come here hoping to see a certain someone.

But as she walked closer to the green stretch by the Seine, she saw her.
Of course.

Roseanne Park.

Dressed in high-waisted joggers and a cropped navy top, she was already on the grass near the low rail fence, stretching her legs with long, dancer-like grace. One foot perched on the railing, both hands reaching far past her toes, her ponytail bobbing gently with the motion. The morning sun kissed the sides of her exposed waist and shoulders, and her whole body moved like it had a rhythm of its own—calm, fluid, sure of itself. She looked like she belonged in the park. Like she belonged anywhere.

Jennie immediately looked away.
This is so stupid, she told herself. Why am I here? I said I wasn't coming. I told her.
And yet her legs had carried her all the way back.

She could lie to herself, say it was routine, say she wanted fresh air, say she had every right to jog in her own city—but even she wasn't naïve enough to buy it.
She could've picked a dozen other routes.
She could've slept in.
She could've pretended that hug hadn't happened.
But here she was, and worse, she was walking closer.

Roseanne turned as if she could feel the shift in the air. Her eyes lit up the second she spotted Jennie, her grin stretching from ear to ear like someone who'd just won a bet.

"Well, look who decided to bless me with her bunny presence," Roseanne said, voice bright and teasing.

Jennie groaned internally. "Don't call me that," she muttered.

"Too late. It's permanently engraved in my heart," Roseanne replied dramatically, placing a hand over her chest.

Jennie rolled her eyes and came to a stop just a few feet away, arms folded across her chest. "I only came to say something."

Roseanne raised an amused eyebrow. "Oh? What's that? You missed me?"

Jennie's glare could have incinerated a small bush. "I came to tell you I won't be coming back."

There was a moment of silence. Then Roseanne scoffed.

"You came all the way here at sunrise... to say that you're not coming?"

Jennie's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't have an answer for that. Not one that would sound remotely convincing.

Roseanne leaned her head to the side, that maddening grin never leaving her face. "You could've just not shown up, you know. Like yesterday."

Jennie didn't respond. She hated how smug Roseanne looked—like she'd already figured her out and was just waiting for Jennie to catch up. Her cheeks were warm, but she refused to acknowledge why.

Roseanne took a step closer, voice suddenly softer. "You don't have to run away from me."

"I'm not running away," Jennie shot back.

"Oh? Then what's with all the dramatic 'I'm not coming back' declarations?"

Jennie wanted to say something sharp, something clever, but her brain wasn't cooperating. Especially not when Roseanne was looking at her like that. Open. Kind. Slightly infuriating.

Roseanne chuckled. "Okay, okay. Let me make it easier. How about this?"
She pointed toward the coffee stand just a few meters away near the park's edge. "Come get coffee with me. Just one. I promise not to use any more nicknames. Unless you give me a new one."

"No."

"Come on. One coffee. You can sit on the opposite side of the table and glare at me the entire time. I'll even let you pick the place next time."

Jennie raised a brow. "You're assuming there'll be a next time."

Roseanne beamed. "Oh, absolutely."

Jennie opened her mouth, fully intending to shut this conversation down—but then she saw the little flicker of hope behind Roseanne's teasing. A flicker that didn't match the tabloids. It didn't match the shenanigans, or the scandals, or the headlines Jennie had read about in her father's file. This girl, here, now—she looked so real. So warm. And she wasn't trying to sell Jennie anything. She was just... asking.

And maybe, just maybe, Jennie was tired of pretending she didn't want to know more.

"Fine," Jennie muttered, already regretting it.

Roseanne blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Just one," Jennie warned, pointing a finger at her. "No weird questions. No interviews. No names in magazines."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Roseanne said, crossing her heart.

Jennie started walking toward the stand, trying her best not to smile at the excited skip Roseanne added to her step beside her.

Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe she would end up in the tabloids.
But for now, she just wanted to see what kind of coffee Roseanne Park drank.

Jennie tipped her head back and let the last sip of caramel latte slide down her throat, cold and sweet against the humid air of a Parisian afternoon. She gave a small exhale as she lowered the cup, the hollow clunk of plastic meeting wood as she placed it back on the table. Across from her, Roseanne leaned back lazily, sunglasses perched on her nose, her attention drifting to the world around them. There was something casual and infuriating about how effortlessly she lounged—her long legs crossed, one arm slung over the back of the bench, gaze bouncing from stranger to stranger as though she owned the park.

Jennie followed her line of sight—predictably, it had landed on a woman. A tall blonde in a white jumpsuit, tossing her hair and locking eyes with Roseanne like they had already exchanged numbers and hotel rooms. Jennie grimaced and waved her hand in front of Roseanne's face, snapping her out of her gaze.

"Unbelievable," Jennie muttered, her iced coffee sloshing as she gestured. "I literally just told you we're even."

Roseanne turned her head slowly, lips curving with a practiced ease. "I heard you."

"Then let me repeat it in case the blonde fried your brain," Jennie continued, her tone clipped. "I saved your life. You bought me coffee. We're even. That means no more trying to ask me out, no gala invites, no rooftop dates, no late-night ice cream offers. None of it."

"You practiced that list?" Roseanne asked, cocking her head. "Because it's impressive."

Jennie glared. "Don't get smart."

"Too late."

"I mean it, Roseanne." Jennie leaned back with a groan, crossing her arms. "I'm not going to be in some gossip column next to your name like the other poor souls."

Roseanne said nothing at first. Just watched her with a mild, unreadable expression. Then she smiled—softly this time, not smug. A curl of amusement and something else that made Jennie's spine straighten. That smile never meant something simple.

"Are you single?" Roseanne asked.

Jennie's heart stuttered. The question came so effortlessly, yet so pointed, that it might've been scripted in one of those black-and-white French films everyone obsessed over.

She blinked, leaned forward, fingers tightening on the rim of her cup. "Excuse me?"

Roseanne shrugged lightly, the gesture casual but deliberate. "I'm asking if you're single."

"You can't just ask that."

"Why not?"

Jennie stared at her. "Because that's personal."

"You literally just listed all the ways I'm not allowed to pursue you. I'm just verifying if that's because someone's already got your heart, or you just don't want to give it away."

Jennie's lips parted, her breath hitching slightly. She didn't answer. She wasn't sure she could. Because yes—technically she was single. Romantically unattached. Professionally committed to her own chaos. Emotionally—well, emotionally was another mess altogether.

But saying "yes" meant opening a door. And letting Roseanne in meant stepping into a hurricane with a velvet smile.

Roseanne waited, her eyes unreadable behind the dark lenses. When Jennie didn't speak, she only smiled more knowingly, as though the silence itself was an answer.

"You know," Roseanne said, turning her gaze back to the path, "you keep saying you're not interested, but you're still here."

"I'm here to remind you that we're even," Jennie said flatly, though it felt like a lie even to her own ears.

"And you couldn't do that over silence?" Roseanne asked, cocking a brow.

Jennie said nothing.

Roseanne took off her sunglasses slowly, folding them and placing them beside her coffee. Her eyes were dark and intent, rimmed in the kind of mascara that didn't flake, the kind that said: I came prepared. Her gaze didn't break as she leaned slightly forward.

"Do you always run from people who want to get to know you?" she asked.

Jennie stiffened. "You don't want to know me."

"I do."

"No, you want a new feature in your gallery of romantic scandals and black-and-white tabloid covers."

"That's what you think you know about me."

Jennie looked away, past the trees and the joggers and the laughter of children chasing pigeons. Her thoughts felt too loud, like someone had cracked her ribs open and let the wind in. She shouldn't have come. She really shouldn't have come. But here she was, sipping coffee, dodging questions, pretending she wasn't memorizing every curve of Roseanne's voice.

"Do you ever," she murmured, "stop performing?"

Roseanne tilted her head. "Performing?"

"The charm. The jokes. The nicknames. You don't know how to exist without trying to win someone over."

Roseanne's eyes darkened slightly. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not," Jennie said, folding her arms. "But it's true."

A silence stretched. The ice in her cup clinked as it settled lower.

Roseanne leaned back again, her expression unreadable now, her gaze flickering toward the horizon. "Okay," she said after a beat. "Then let's not perform. Let's just sit. And exist. For ten minutes. No flirting. No questions. No expectations."

Jennie eyed her skeptically.

"Ten minutes," Roseanne repeated, raising her hands in mock surrender. "If you're still annoyed after that, I'll leave. No follow-ups. No invites. No curtain girl references."

Jennie snorted despite herself.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

They sat. And for ten minutes, the world moved and they didn't. No one spoke. Jennie let her heart slow down and listened to the city. Roseanne didn't push. Didn't speak. Just existed beside her, with the quiet weight of someone who, despite everything, knew how to wait.

And for once, Jennie didn't run.

Jennie stood up from the café bench with a determined flick of her wrist, sliding the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her caramel eyes narrowed at Roseanne, not in anger—but in guarded restraint.

"You don't seem like a bad person, Roseanne," she said, voice low but unwavering. "Just... too playful when it comes to girls."

Roseanne tilted her head, squinting against the golden light that filtered through the trees. Her sunglasses were perched lazily on top of her head now, leaving her eyes fully visible and curiously focused. "And what's so wrong in that?"

Jennie sighed, already turning to leave. "Of course you won't see the wrong in it."

Roseanne leaned forward on her elbows, lips curling into a half-smile, amused by the challenge in Jennie's tone. "Okay then," she began lightly, "was that coffee wrong?"

Jennie stopped, turning slightly. "No."

"Good." Roseanne stood and slung her own crossbody bag over her shoulder, falling into step beside her. "So if we go to the beach tomorrow—maybe share some fries and get our feet sandy—is that wrong?"

Jennie didn't answer right away. "No."

"Right. And what if we head to a club after? Just for the music. A little dancing, a drink or two. Still not wrong, yeah?"

Jennie opened her mouth again, then hesitated. Her feet stopped on the edge of the cobbled street, and she turned toward Roseanne, eyes blazing with something fierce and wounded. "No. But I'm not the kind of girl you think I am, Roseanne."

Roseanne blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.

"I'm different," Jennie said firmly.

She turned and walked off without waiting for a reply, heels clicking against the uneven stones. Roseanne stood stunned for a beat, then let out a short breath, equal parts disbelief and delight. She jogged forward to catch up, grinning like someone who'd just been given an unsolvable riddle she couldn't wait to crack.

"You're kind of adorable when you're mad," she said with a chuckle.

Jennie rolled her eyes so hard they could've lodged in the back of her skull, but her pace slowed enough that Roseanne could walk beside her without effort.

They passed along the quieter artsy quarter of Montmartre—where the city slowed down and let color creep into its bones. Canvas stands and folding stools lined the walk, artists of every kind hunched over their palettes and sketchbooks. The smell of turpentine mixed with freshly brewed coffee and the faintest note of lavender drifting from a nearby florist.

A white-bearded old man, hunched over a wooden easel with pencil-streaked hands, looked up as they approached. His face, leathery and lined like a map of time, lit up as he waved a hand. "Mesdemoiselles! Vous deux là-bas—vous feriez un couple parfait. Un portrait, peut-être?" (Ladies! You two over there— you'd make a perfect couple. A portrait, perhaps?)

Jennie started to shake her head. "Non, merci—"

But Roseanne, bright as always, had already answered with an enthusiastic, "Oui!" before tugging gently at Jennie's wrist. "Come on. It'll be fun."

Jennie exhaled through her nose. "I said no."

"Your 'no' means yes," Roseanne whispered.

"It really doesn't."

But within a few more seconds of Roseanne's persistence and the soft pleading of the old artist's eyes, Jennie found herself seated reluctantly beside her, arms crossed but eyes flickering with reluctant curiosity.

The old man adjusted his stool and began sketching, his pencil moving with the practiced grace of someone who had drawn too many strangers into stories before. He murmured things in French as he worked, complimenting Jennie's jawline and Roseanne's cheekbones, sketching the space between them like he was painting gravity itself.

Jennie translated softly after a pause, "He said we look like a perfect couple."

Roseanne gave a low scoff, leaning back a little. "That's ridiculous."

Jennie turned to her, arching a brow. "You think so?"

"I don't do relationships," Roseanne said, matter-of-fact. "That whole idea—labels, expectations, shared toothbrushes—it sounds trashy. Like... trapping something that was meant to be wild."

Jennie stared at her, part disbelief, part disappointment flickering behind her lashes. "You think commitment is trash?"

"I think commitment is fine—for people who like illusions," Roseanne said, not unkindly. "Me? I like honesty. And freedom."

Jennie was silent. Her fingers tensed slightly in her lap.

The old man didn't seem to notice the sudden quiet. He worked a few more strokes, then blew gently over the paper and held it up for them. The drawing was beautiful—startlingly so. There they were, side by side, Jennie's eyes looking away while Roseanne smiled at her. Somehow, the lines told a story even they didn't understand yet.

Roseanne stared at the portrait and then at Jennie, expression unreadable for a moment. Then she paid the man and rolled the portrait before offering it to Jennie. "Here. Keep it. You'll want proof of this day when I'm famous again for dating someone mysterious in Paris."

Jennie rolled her eyes but took the sketch, fingers brushing Roseanne's briefly as she did. The contact felt small, but it settled in her chest like heat.

They walked in silence for a few blocks.

Roseanne didn't push. Jennie didn't speak.

The paper stayed folded in her hands, and though she didn't say it, she kept glancing down—because somehow, in that black and white sketch, they looked like something Jennie wasn't ready to admit she maybe, possibly, slightly wanted.

The walk back was unusually quiet.

Jennie's fingers fidgeted with the folded edge of the sketch in her bag, the crinkle of paper soft beneath her touch. Roseanne strolled beside her with an easy gait, hands stuffed into the pockets of her oversized blazer, every now and then kicking a pebble along the uneven sidewalk. The fading light of the Paris evening cast a warm pink glow on everything, but Jennie's stomach was tight, not with butterflies, but worry.

Please let Dad be out, she prayed silently. She didn't need this—Roseanne and her father in the same breathing space? Catastrophic. Her dad would be able to read the situation in one look, one smirk from Roseanne, and he'd know. He always knew.

She side-eyed Roseanne and bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her dad would be disappointed.

"Hey," she said suddenly, not liking the silence too much. "Back there... what did you mean by 'trapping something that's meant to be wild'? Relationships aren't cages."

Roseanne glanced at her and gave a shrug, casual. "I mean exactly what I said. You're born alone, you die alone. You carry your own heart to the grave, not someone else's. So why spend that time complicating things with commitment and expectations? Why not be free? Have fun?"

Jennie stopped walking for a second, her brows knitting. "Fun? Fun? If it's that fun, why do people take their own life over it?"

Roseanne turned to her, blinking.

"Exactly," Jennie said, her voice lower, harder. "If your idea of love and freedom is so joyful, why do people end up broken from it?" She stared directly into Roseanne's eyes. "Stella."

The name left her lips like a stone thrown into still water.

Roseanne's breath caught audibly in her throat. She looked at Jennie, really looked at her now, the cocky light gone from her eyes. Her next words were soft, uncertain. "How do you know about Stella?"

Jennie's expression didn't waver. "That's not important."

There was a beat of silence between them as Roseanne dropped her gaze and began walking again. "Stella was... a mistake."

Jennie followed beside her, quietly. Roseanne kept going, her voice quieter now, almost small.

"I told her everything from the beginning. That I wasn't looking for anything serious. That I don't do relationships. But she thought she'd be the exception. Thought she could change my mind. She got attached, and when I pulled away, she broke." She rubbed her temple. "I didn't mean for it to get that bad. I didn't expect she'd—"

She stopped, let the sentence die.

"God's grace, she's okay now," she said after a breath. "She married her therapist." A bitter laugh. "Happy ending, right?"

Jennie stared at her like she was speaking a different language. "And you're just... fine about it?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Roseanne said, her tone shifting into defense. "I didn't lie to her. I didn't promise her anything I couldn't give. It's not my fault she read things into it."

"That's the most cold thing I've heard all week," Jennie muttered, lips pressing into a tight line.

They reached the cobbled steps leading to Jennie's apartment. The same little building with green shutters and rusted iron railings. A few lights were on inside. Jennie's heart thudded in her chest. No sign of her father's car. Relief.

She turned before climbing the steps, one hand on the railing, the other pointing squarely at Roseanne. "I don't want to get tangled in your mess, Roseanne. I don't want to end up being another one of your flings that turns into chaos. Keep me out of it."

Her voice wasn't sharp, but it was resolute. Roseanne looked up at her—no teasing grin this time, just a glint of something unreadable behind her lashes.

Jennie turned and disappeared into the building, the door clicking shut behind her.

And still, despite all of it—Stella, the warnings, the doubts—they both knew deep down:

This wasn't the last time they would cross paths.

The bus rattled gently down the cobbled Parisian streets, a low hum of the engine mixing with the muted chatter of passengers. Jennie sat by the window, her temple leaning against the cool glass, certificate folder clutched to her chest. She watched the city blur past in soft focus—the trees, the cafes with their rickety tables, the blue sky dipped in gold. Everything felt slower, quieter, like the pause between notes in a song.

A week ago, her heart beat like a metronome. Predictable. Calm. Steady.

Now it jittered. Skipped. Barked like an unruly puppy chasing after a butterfly.

She sighed, tugging her scarf a little tighter. It's just Paris, she told herself. Just the city, the moment, the mood. Not her. Definitely not her.

The bus took a turn, and just as Jennie pulled away from the window to shift her weight—

A body plopped beside her.

A very familiar one.

A denim-clad arm draped lazily over the back of the seat, brushing her shoulder with casual claim. Jennie didn't need to look to know who it was. Her stomach knew before her eyes did. That stupid tail-wagging thump in her chest was evidence enough.

Still, she turned, face already prepared with a scowl.

"Guess who?" Roseanne grinned, leaning closer with the devil's own smirk tugging her lips. Her sunglasses were perched atop her head, messy strands of light honey-blonde hair falling into her eyes, which twinkled with a kind of satisfaction that Jennie was too tired to argue with.

Roseanne's hand moved swiftly, and before Jennie could react, two fingers pinched her cheek.

"Still my favorite part," she cooed. "Your bunny cheeks are criminally adorable, you know that?"

Jennie swatted her hand away, scowl deepening, cheeks now tinged red not from the pinch but the sheer boldness of it all. "Do you have to be so annoying in public?"

"You love it," Roseanne said, leaning back and kicking one leg over the other. "Even if you won't admit it."

Jennie turned to the window again, her face catching the faint reflection of her own eyes narrowing. She hated how Roseanne could just appear like that, like she was some inevitability written into her day. The audacity of it all—just slipping into her seat, pinching her cheeks, looking at her like she belonged there.

"Don't you have some business party or scandal to attend?" Jennie muttered.

"Finished them all early," Roseanne said. "Because I had something more interesting to do today."

Jennie gave her a sideways look. "Please don't say me."

Roseanne grinned wider. "Wasn't going to. But now that you've said it..."

Jennie groaned. "God, you're impossible."

There was a pause. Just a beat of silence where the world seemed to hush around them. Then, without fanfare, Roseanne slipped a hand inside her jacket and pulled something out. She held it out in front of Jennie with all the drama of presenting a diamond ring.

A bar of chocolate. Plain milk. Jennie's favorite brand, She hoped.

Jennie eyed it suspiciously.

"It's not poisoned," Roseanne promised. "And yes, it's from that boutique chocolatier you liked on Rue Saint-Antoine. I asked the girl there what your kind of person would like. She said someone with a quiet heart."

Jennie blinked at her.

"Seriously," Roseanne added. "She said people who look like they hide their feelings under twelve cardigans love this one."

Jennie stared a second longer. Then, with a sigh, she took the chocolate. "You're so annoying."

"And yet..." Roseanne's voice turned smug.

Jennie unwrapped the corner and broke off a piece, popping it into her mouth without comment. Her eyes returned to the window, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist—even as she very much felt Roseanne's thigh warm beside hers, her scent a little too close, her grin almost audible.

They sat in silence for a bit. The city rolled past them like a film reel. At one point, Roseanne shifted a little closer—not enough to alarm, but enough to make Jennie glance at her.

"You know," Roseanne said, voice suddenly softer, "I wanted to ask you something. That afternoon. After Stella. You looked at me like you knew exactly what kind of person I was. And maybe you were right. Maybe I was that person. But when you look at me now... you don't look like that anymore."

Jennie didn't answer right away. She finished her chocolate first, folded the wrapper neatly, and tucked it into her pocket.

Then, without looking at her, she said, "Maybe I've accepted that people are allowed to change."

"Even me?"

Jennie gave her a sharp glance. "Don't make me regret saying that."

Roseanne laughed under her breath. "I wouldn't dream of it."

A few moments passed before the bus slowed to a stop. Jennie stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "This is my stop."

Roseanne stood too. "Mine as well."

"No, it's not."

"It is now."

Jennie narrowed her eyes. "Seriously?"

Roseanne only grinned.

Jennie shook her head, stepping off the bus. Roseanne followed close behind, hands in pockets, steps light, easy. They walked together for a while, neither of them saying much, the space between them charged but unspoken.

Paris felt warmer. Brighter.

And though Jennie tried to convince herself she was still immune, her heart wagged its metaphorical tail all the same.

Just as Jennie turned the corner onto the narrow street that led to her apartment complex, a glint of metal caught her eye—the familiar grey-blue shine of her father's car, parked a few steps ahead, half-shielded by the slope of the alley's stone wall. Her entire body seized with panic.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Without a second thought, Jennie whirled on her heel, grabbed Roseanne by the wrist, and yanked her backward—past a dusty bakery window and behind the stony lip of an alleyway. Roseanne let out a soft grunt as her back hit the cool stone wall.

"What the hell—" she began, but stopped when she saw Jennie's face—eyes wild, hands tugging at the collar of her jacket, smoothing it down, and scanning the street like a rabbit checking for hawks.

Roseanne blinked down at her. Jennie was close. Very close. Her black hair fell around her face like curtains, and the flush of panic bloomed across her cheeks. She looked up once, saw Roseanne staring, and frowned.

"Don't look at me like that," Jennie hissed.

"Like what?"

"Like you're enjoying this."

"I am a little," Roseanne said, barely suppressing her grin. "It's not every day I get shoved against a wall by a beautiful woman."

Jennie rolled her eyes, exasperated beyond reason. "This isn't a game, Roseanne. My father is parked right there. If he sees you, I'll have to come up with a lie that'll get us both grounded for life."

Roseanne raised a brow. "Do twenty-four-year-olds still get grounded?"

Jennie didn't dignify that with a response. She peeked again around the corner, saw her father stepping out of the car with his ever-present detective coat flapping behind him. He looked tired, and suspicious—probably wondering why his daughter had disappeared for the morning without a word.

She turned back, chest tight. "You need to go. Now."

Roseanne crossed her arms, lounging against the wall like they were on vacation. "I don't have any meetings today. You're my only plan."

"Un-plan me," Jennie snapped.

"No can do. I'm too invested."

"You'll get me in trouble."

"And yet..." Roseanne said, tilting her head playfully.

Jennie groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Fine. Meet me under the Eiffel Tower. One o'clock. I'll bring lunch. Then you'll leave me alone."

Roseanne's eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. "It's a date."

Jennie stiffened. "No—it's not a date."

"You said one o'clock. That's prime lunch date hour. You're bringing food. That's practically a picnic."

"Shut up, Roseanne."

Roseanne leaned down slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Jennie's face. Her fingers didn't touch skin, but they came dangerously close. "Wear something nice."

Jennie narrowed her eyes. "Go. Now."

Roseanne offered a mock salute, then turned and walked the other way down the alley, whistling as she went. Jennie watched her disappear around the corner before straightening her own jacket and fixing her expression.

She waited until her father had gone inside before she emerged from the alley, face neutral, expression unreadable. But inside—inside she could still feel the press of Roseanne's nearness, the way her voice lingered in her ears, her scent of something citrusy and bold.

She crossed the street with her head down, cursing herself. Cursing Roseanne. Cursing the universe for being so damn determined to entangle her in things she didn't want.

But even as she reached her door and stepped inside, she could feel her chest flutter—just the tiniest bit—with something perilously close to anticipation.

~

Jennie held the picnic basket tighter against her chest, shifting its weight slightly as the Parisian wind tousled strands of her loose hair across her face. She stood under a broad chestnut tree, its thick canopy casting a cool shade across the grass. The Eiffel Tower loomed just ahead, mighty and majestic as always, iron ribs gleaming faintly under the afternoon sun. She had seen it a thousand times, more than she could count—during school trips, late-night walks with friends, even passing glances while commuting. But something about today was different.

Her gloved fingers tugged the edges of her black coat closer, and she checked her watch again. One o'clock. Right on the dot.

The soft crunch of footsteps on grass broke the stillness behind her, and Jennie didn't have to turn to know who it was.

"You're punctual," came the ever-so-playful voice, laced with amusement and some note of... fondness?

Roseanne's hand came up, fingers pinching Jennie's cheeks like she always did. "My favourite bunny cheeks," she sang, half-laughing as Jennie batted her hand away with a roll of her eyes.

"Don't make that a habit," Jennie muttered, trying to smother the faint warmth crawling up her neck.

Then she froze for half a second as her eyes dropped down to Roseanne's outfit—same black long coat draping her frame, a Calvin Klein crop top peeking out from beneath, and those faded, light blue jeans cuffed perfectly at the ankle.

Jennie's eyes snapped back up to Roseanne's, who had already noticed the coincidence—or perhaps not a coincidence at all. The corners of Roseanne's mouth lifted into a smug grin.

"We're matching," she announced proudly. "How romantic."

Jennie huffed. "It's not romantic. It's just coincidence."

Roseanne gestured between them, amused. "Sure. Coincidence. But if you wanted to twin with me, you could've just said so."

Jennie spun around before she could start to smile, mumbling, "You're so full of yourself," as she made her way to a gentle slope just ahead where the trees gave the perfect filtered light. She picked a patch of lush grass shaded perfectly by the Eiffel's afternoon shadow, spread the small mat she'd brought along, and began unpacking the basket.

Roseanne followed her, tossing her bag down with ease and plopping beside her like they'd done this every weekend since birth.

"I really thought you'd ditch me," Roseanne said, stretching her arms lazily before leaning back on her palms.

Jennie glanced at her. "Almost."

"Well," Roseanne said, "you have a habit of pretending you hate me, but still showing up. It's very tsundere of you."

Jennie gave her a flat look. "I'm not a tsundere."

"Okay," Roseanne said, nodding slowly, "whatever helps you sleep at night."

Jennie ignored her and began laying out the simple lunch she had packed—croissant, sandwiches, cherry tomatoes, fresh juice, a box of strawberries. Roseanne raised her brows in approval as Jennie unscrewed the flask and poured lemonade into two paper cups.

"This is nice," Roseanne said as she took the cup from her. "Are you always this domestic, or is it just for me?"

"It's just food."

"It's the thought that counts," Roseanne said, sipping. "You thought of me."

Jennie didn't respond, her eyes busy focusing on the food she already knew was laid out correctly. She picked at a tomato, then stabbed it with her fork.

"I still don't trust you," she murmured, more to herself than to Roseanne.

"I know," Roseanne replied, voice surprisingly soft. "But you showed up. That's enough for today."

They ate in a momentary silence, surrounded by couples walking hand-in-hand, tourists snapping photos, children chasing each other around, their laughter bouncing off the grass. It was Paris being Paris—lively, elegant, a little chaotic.

Jennie found herself watching a pair of old lovers walking slowly along the path nearby, their hands intertwined, their expressions gentle and quiet. Something twisted in her chest.

"Do you really not believe in relationships?" she asked, not looking at Roseanne.

There was a pause. A long one.

"I believe in people," Roseanne said eventually. "In connections. But I think relationships come with chains, with rules. People change, and rules break. I'd rather be honest from the start than promise something I can't give."

Jennie finally turned to look at her. "So you're scared."

Roseanne met her gaze. Her sunglasses now rested atop her head, and her eyes were open—dark, thoughtful, unguarded.

"Maybe," she said. "But I've seen what happens when people love too hard. They forget themselves. They give everything. I don't want to disappear like that."

Jennie studied her face in silence. She remembered the name. Stella. She remembered that little guilt in Roseanne's voice that day, even if she'd tried to brush it off. And for a second, she wondered what kind of heartbreak could make someone build walls that high and thick around themselves.

"I won't disappear," Jennie said, softly but firmly. "That's not who I am."

Roseanne's smile returned, this time without sarcasm. "I know. That's why I like being around you."

Jennie turned her face away quickly, cheeks heating, and reached for another tomato. Roseanne picked up a strawberry and held it in front of Jennie's face.

Jennie glanced at it, suspicious. "What is this?"

"Peace offering," Roseanne grinned. "For being unbearably charming and obnoxiously good-looking."

Jennie narrowed her eyes. "You are neither of those things."

Roseanne shrugged. "Agree to disagree."

Jennie took the strawberry anyway. "Annoying."

"Admit it," Roseanne said, settling back with a satisfied grin. "You like me a little."

Jennie looked down at her cup, swirling the lemonade around before meeting Roseanne's gaze one more time.

"Maybe," she said. "A very little."

Roseanne's smile widened, radiant as ever. "I'll take it."

The grass felt crisp beneath the mat as the afternoon sun pressed gently through the swaying leaves above them. Around them, Paris drifted by in the easy rhythm of a late afternoon—laughter from a couple a few meters away, a child giggling near the flower beds, the distant chime of a bicycle bell. And in the middle of it all, Jennie sat with her knees tucked close, arms draped over them as if she needed something to hold on to—something solid in the face of what she was about to say.

Roseanne lay beside her on the mat, propped on her elbows, licking a trace of strawberry juice from her thumb. Her sunglasses had slid down just enough to show her eyes—curious, patient, waiting. "You still haven't told me your name," she said, her voice lilting, playful but gentle.

Jennie didn't look at her. She kept her gaze forward, where the Eiffel Tower cast a stretched shadow across the park, its iron bones glinting against the sky.

"You talk like we're close or something," Jennie murmured.

"Well, I did buy you coffee. We shared a sketch. You threatened me once or twice. That's a solid foundation for any modern friendship." Roseanne grinned. "You're lucky I didn't show up with a matching necklace."

Jennie shook her head, a reluctant smile curling the edge of her lips.

"But really," Roseanne said, turning on her side, resting her head on her hand now, eyes soft. "I want to know something real about you. Anything."

For a while, Jennie was quiet. The wind rustled the edges of the napkins inside the basket. Then, finally, her voice came low, almost like it didn't belong to the self-assured, tightly-wound girl Roseanne had first met.

"I'm from Seoul," she said.

Roseanne blinked. "Wait... really?"

Jennie nodded slowly. "Just like you."

"I didn't hear even a trace of the accent," Roseanne said, half-impressed, half-disbelieving.

"That's because I moved here when I was nine," Jennie continued, finally meeting her gaze. "My mom died. It was sudden. Medical, not an accident. She was healthy, and then she wasn't. I think my dad was too lost in the grief to function where everything reminded him of her. So... we came to Paris. He took a transfer, packed up everything overnight. I didn't even get to say goodbye to a lot of my friends. Just... left."

"God," Roseanne said under her breath. "I'm sorry."

Jennie shrugged. "It was hard at first. French was a mess. Kids weren't nice. But... I liked how quiet this city can be, despite all the noise. There's space to feel here. That's what I needed."

Roseanne watched her, the way her fingers twisted in the loose thread of the mat. The vulnerability wasn't showy. It was like a small crack in a glass wall. You could miss it if you weren't looking hard enough.

"What about now?" Roseanne asked.

Jennie's lips twitched. "Now I'm a music student. Just finished my course, actually. This morning, I went to pick up my completion certificate."

"Big moment," Roseanne said, eyebrows rising.

"I guess." Jennie smiled faintly. "Master's in piano and keyboard. I've played for a couple of local producers here and there—like trial sessions. They said they'd call if anything opened up. I'm just waiting."

"But you don't seem the desperate type," Roseanne noted.

Jennie shook her head. "I love music. I want to do it for a living, but... not for the money or validation. It's always been the one constant. It stayed when everything else didn't. If I start tying it to how many calls I get, I'll lose what makes it mine."

There was a pause.

"You're kind of amazing, you know that?" Roseanne said softly.

Jennie gave her a look. "Don't romanticize trauma."

"No, really. You're grounded. You've been through something, and you still have this steady rhythm about you. I think that's rare."

Jennie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. "Or maybe I'm just boring."

"You?" Roseanne scoffed. "Boring? You literally held me against a wall this morning like we were in a spy movie."

"That was survival. And panic."

"Still counts."

They both laughed, the sound brief and natural, carried away by the breeze.

Roseanne looked at her, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "You just gave me your life story. But still not your name."

Jennie leaned back, her shoulders easing against the tree behind them. She didn't look at Roseanne. She just tilted her head to the side slightly and let her eyes fall closed.

"Because then it'll be real," she murmured.

Roseanne blinked. "What?"

Jennie exhaled. "If you know my name... if I give it to you, then this stops being a series of accidents and starts being something else."

Roseanne was quiet.

Jennie opened her eyes again. "And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that. You... you're unpredictable. You say you don't do relationships. You live by your own rules. I'm not like that. I like knowing things are steady. I like plans. Schedules, I'm not even sure if I wanna be friends with you ."

Roseanne sat up slightly. "I can be those things. If I tried."

"But would you?"

The question hung between them like smoke, hazy and heavy.

Jennie pulled her coat tighter again, as if bracing herself against something more than the breeze. Roseanne looked at her, for once not teasing, not smiling. Just looking.

"I get it," she said quietly. "You don't have to give me anything you're not ready to."

Jennie's gaze flicked to her, surprised.

Roseanne smiled a little. "But I'll earn it. Eventually."

Jennie didn't answer. But her lips curved just slightly. Not a smile. Not a promise. Just... a shift in expression that made something in Roseanne's chest flutter.

They sat in silence for a long time after that, watching as the shadows lengthened across the grass and the tower glowed a little warmer in the light. Around them, the world moved like a slow symphony. Jennie didn't say another word about her name. But she didn't pull away when Roseanne's hand brushed against hers.

And that, for now, was enough.

Jennie mirrored Roseanne's position on the mat, arms folded behind her head, the crown of her head almost brushing against the picnic basket. A warm gust of Parisian wind swept through the open green, fluttering the corner of a napkin and loosening a lock of Jennie's hair from behind her ear. She didn't fix it. Her eyes stayed on the sky, her tone measured but curious.

"So," Jennie began, voice laced with equal parts skepticism and intrigue, "what's your story then?"

Roseanne turned her head slightly, a brow lifting over the rim of her sunglasses.

Jennie continued, "Why are you like this? Detached. Floating from one girl to the next like you're some breeze no one can catch. What is it? A dramatic heartbreak? A girl who cheated on you? A deep love that left?"

She was teasing, but also not. She'd spent enough time with Roseanne to understand there was more than the carefree smile and flirtatious remarks. She just didn't know what.

But to her surprise, Roseanne laughed. Not a sharp or bitter one—just a genuine, belly-deep laugh that made Jennie glance at her, puzzled.

"What?" Jennie frowned.

"You really expected that?" Roseanne asked, a smirk curving her lips. "Some tragic backstory?"

"I mean... usually that's how it goes."

Roseanne shrugged. "Not for me."

Jennie's brows knit. "You're not like this because of some trauma?"

"Nope." Roseanne popped another strawberry in her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then added, "I'm like this because I chose to be."

Jennie turned fully toward her now, propping her weight on one elbow. "Okay, explain."

Roseanne licked a drop of juice from the corner of her thumb before speaking. "It started back in high school. All-girls school in Gangnam. Super conservative. Uniforms, curfews, the whole package. I was the class president, by the way."

Jennie scoffed, "Now that's hard to imagine."

Roseanne grinned. "I was good with people, even then. Anyway, one day this girl named Suzy asked if I wanted to help her rehearse lines for a school play. I said sure, because I had a crush on her the moment she walked into homeroom two months before."

Jennie raised a brow, "Wait... Suzy Suzy?"

Roseanne glanced at her sideways, lips curling. "Mmhmm. Actress Suzy. Nation's first love. Still pretty. Still famous. Still pretending she never kissed a girl behind the library at sixteen."

Jennie blinked. "You're serious?"

"Deadly."

There was a flicker of pride in Roseanne's voice, but it was wrapped in nostalgia more than vanity.

"You're not making this up?" Jennie asked, half-disbelieving.

Roseanne held up two fingers. "Scouts honor. But don't tell anyone. If it ends up on some scandal site, I'll know who to blame."

Jennie laughed. "Fine. My lips are sealed."

"Anyway," Roseanne continued, more thoughtful now, "that was the beginning. The first time I realized I wasn't interested in the fantasy they kept selling to us. The whole 'meet your oppa, fall in love, marry at twenty-eight, have two kids by thirty-two' script. It just... didn't fit."

Jennie listened, her gaze now locked on Roseanne fully.

"Suzy was sweet, but she wanted the fairytale," Roseanne said. "She always talked about weddings and rings and someday leaving the industry to be a mom. That wasn't my dream. Never was. Even at sixteen, I knew I wanted something else. Freedom. Options."

Jennie tilted her head. "So one kiss and you turned into a commitment-phobe?"

Roseanne laughed again. "It wasn't just one kiss. But no. It wasn't about fear. It was about clarity. I realized early on that love—romantic love—is just... adrenaline. It spikes, it flatlines. It isn't stable. Not like people think. And I like stable. Predictable. The kind I control."

Jennie frowned slightly. "You make it sound so... mechanical."

"Because it is, for me." Roseanne shrugged. "Now that I'm running a luxury brand consultancy—clients from Seoul to Milan, eleven-figure portfolios, some of the most insane egos you can imagine—I have to be decisive. I have to compartmentalize. My commitments are all professional. I don't have the bandwidth for emotional knots."

"That sounds exhausting," Jennie murmured.

Roseanne looked at her with a knowing smile. "That's because you still believe love should be soft and sacred. Like a ballad. But I see it like a dance floor. Flashy, dizzying, temporary. You step in, spin around, and step out before the music changes."

Jennie didn't answer. She just stared at her, not judging, just... trying to understand.

"You cross the line," Roseanne said softly, brushing a crumb from her jeans, "you step into a cage. And I've never had a dramatic exception to make me feel like that cage is worth being trapped in. No sparkly edges. No golden bars. Just... a cage."

Jennie exhaled. "And you never wanted to test that theory?"

"I test it all the time," Roseanne said, turning to look at her. "But I never fail."

A moment passed in silence.

Jennie picked up a grape from the bowl between them and popped it in her mouth. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Roseanne laughed, but there was something softer in her eyes now. "It's not sad. It's just... honest."

Jennie watched her. "Maybe one day someone will prove you wrong."

"I doubt it."

"You sound so sure."

"I am."

Jennie stared at her for a moment longer. Then looked away, resting her cheek on her bent arm.

Roseanne turned back toward the sky, a light breeze carrying the scent of lavender and grass between them. And though the Eiffel Tower still loomed proudly in the distance, the real monument here—silent and unspoken—was this rare exchange. Something soft passed between them, wrapped in candor and truth.

Jennie didn't push further. And Roseanne didn't retreat either.

They just laid there, two girls who shared a fruit bowl and fragments of who they were, tangled in a city of lights, waiting to see which truths would survive the morning.

Roseanne sat up abruptly as though something had slipped her mind, her coat swaying with the motion and catching the soft sunlight filtering through the trees.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, brushing off crumbs from her hands and jeans. "I nearly forgot to tell you—I got a new project."

Jennie, still reclined with her head tilted to the side, lazily lifted her gaze toward her. "Another fancy brand deal?"

Roseanne grinned, the kind of grin that came from knowing she had the world at her fingertips. "Bigger. It's a rebranding for a Korean luxury fashion-tech startup. Clean aesthetics, sustainability, tailored AI user data—basically, it's sleek as hell. They want someone who understands both East and West, and well..." She threw up her hands modestly. "Who better than yours truly?"

Jennie gave a soft laugh, nodding. "Sounds like they found the right person."

"Mmhm," Roseanne hummed in agreement, digging her fingers into the picnic basket to pull out a wrapped chocolate truffle. "And the best part? If this works, it's probably worth a million dollars, give or take."

Jennie's brows lifted slightly. "Congratulations. That's... that's incredible."

Roseanne popped the truffle into her mouth, clearly satisfied with herself. Her eyes gleamed. "Thanks, bunny cheeks."

Jennie rolled her eyes at the nickname but didn't retort. Instead, she sat up and began folding the edges of the picnic blanket inward. The wind picked up just a little, carrying a crisp edge with it that hinted at the changing season.

But then came the part Roseanne said so casually, so offhandedly, that it didn't even feel like a revelation. Just a dot at the end of a sentence.

"I'll be flying back to Seoul next week. Probably for a few months, maybe more."

Jennie's hands froze mid-fold. A quiet pause stretched between them, not loud or dramatic—just there, hanging like a curtain between afternoon and evening.

It wasn't supposed to affect her. Jennie wasn't even sure what she was feeling. There wasn't a word for it, not exactly. Not sadness, not disappointment. Just a small dull ache, the kind that comes when something you didn't realize had become part of your routine is about to be removed. Without warning. Without asking.

Of course Roseanne had to leave. That's who she was.

Still, Jennie nodded, swallowing the weight at the back of her throat. "Makes sense," she said quietly. "Big project."

"Mhm," Roseanne murmured, but her voice was already drifting. Her attention had shifted toward the Eiffel Tower in the distance, catching its full silhouette under the softening light. A smile, radiant and absentminded, bloomed on her face. A vision of a woman fully content—fully alive—in the moment.

Jennie turned her gaze toward her, studied the ease in her expression, and felt a curious twist in her chest. She didn't know what it was exactly. Maybe she didn't want to know.

Whatever it was, she brushed it off quickly, smoothing it out before it turned to a frown. This moment didn't deserve it.

She looked up at the sky, cloudless and vast. "You're really something, you know that?" she said after a minute, just loud enough to be heard.

Roseanne turned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Jennie shrugged, the smile on her lips a strange mix of fondness and frustration. "Just... you. You have this way of appearing in someone's life like a pop song. Catchy. Loud. Gets stuck in your head for days."

Roseanne laughed. "That's the nicest and most insulting thing anyone's ever said to me."

Jennie smirked, shaking her head. "Good. Keep it."

Their eyes met briefly, then flickered away. Roseanne leaned back again, resting her weight on her elbows, eyes trailing up the tower's iron frame.

"You ever think about going back?" she asked suddenly. "To Seoul?"

Jennie was caught off guard. "I don't know. Maybe someday. Not now."

"You miss it?"

"I miss pieces of it. Sounds. Smells. My mother's face in the mornings. But Paris... Paris became home before I even realized it."

Roseanne nodded slowly, her gaze unreadable now. "I get that. It's strange, isn't it? How we leave places, thinking they're temporary stops—and then one day we look around and they're our whole lives."

"Yeah," Jennie said softly. "Exactly like that."

They didn't speak for a while after that. The wind moved around them, stirring the empty cups and napkins. Roseanne tilted her head and closed her eyes, basking in the light.

Jennie, meanwhile, glanced sideways, memorizing the moment against her better judgment.

She didn't want to remember Roseanne like this—at peace, radiant, untouchable. But she knew she would.

There was something about Roseanne's absence that Jennie could already feel, like a favorite song fading out before the final chorus. She didn't want to rewind it. She didn't even want to play it again.

She just wanted to sit in the silence it left behind and wonder why it sounded so loud.

~

The day arrived much sooner than Jennie had prepared for.

A week passed like a blur—like one long breath held under water. And now here she was, arms folded across her chest, watching the soft shimmer of city lights outside the suite's floor-to-ceiling windows. Paris was always a painting, alive with gold and grey and murmured stories between its corners. But tonight, it all felt like the inside of a snow globe—quiet, contained, and just a little too still.

Inside, Roseanne was moving with her usual elegance and mischief. Packing wasn't supposed to be graceful, but somehow she made it look like choreography. One suitcase was already zipped, and another half-folded with coats and shoes. She moved with a sort of carelessness, as though she wasn't actually leaving anything behind—just relocating.

"Boarding at nine," Roseanne muttered to herself as she checked her phone screen, her voice half-laced with annoyance. "I swear, I'm just going to get a jet. One less thing to schedule around."

Jennie stood by the open bedroom partition, hands clenched loosely around the stem of her empty glass, nodding absently. "Sounds like a very Roseanne solution."

"Of course it is," Roseanne replied with a smirk. "I hate waiting. For planes, for people, for... anything, really."

Jennie tried to laugh but ended up biting the inside of her cheek instead. Something wasn't sitting right in her chest. She told herself it was the food—blamed it on the sausage and mash from earlier, which felt like an odd mix from the café but she ate it anyway because Roseanne insisted.

But it wasn't the food. She knew it.

Roseanne stuffed a pair of heels into a pouch, zipped it closed, and finally turned into the living room, patting her blazer pockets as she came in. Jennie straightened, caught mid-thought, then cleared her throat and held something out to her. A small gift. Wrapped in a napkin and tied with twine.

Roseanne blinked, her steps faltering. "You brought me a gift?"

Jennie looked away. "Don't read too much into it."

"That means I definitely should." Roseanne smiled as she took the bundle and unwrapped it slowly. Her fingers stilled when she saw the bracelet—simple, made of rough twine, with colored beads dotted unevenly through the weave.

"You made this?"

Jennie shook her head. "No. I bought it off an old lady by the riverbank. She said it was lucky."

Roseanne's smile softened, eyes tracing over each bead like it meant more than it probably did. "You know, I didn't think you'd do anything sentimental. Not your style."

Jennie shrugged. "I didn't want to show up empty-handed."

"Well," Roseanne said, slipping it over her wrist without hesitation, "empty-handed or not, this is officially the only thing I'm taking with me that wasn't bought with a card."

Jennie gave a tight smile. She couldn't look at her for too long. That stupid gaze Roseanne gave—like she was looking at Jennie and seeing something the rest of the world hadn't bothered to notice—was dangerous. Too warm. Too knowing. Too much.

They gathered the final pieces in silence after that. Jennie helped roll one of the smaller suitcases out to the elevator. Their steps echoed in the hallway, like each footfall was a countdown. Roseanne checked out of the hotel with the kind of charm that melted receptionists, her accent impeccable, her laugh still echoing in Jennie's ears even as they stepped out into the chilled night.

The car was waiting—a sleek black vehicle with tinted windows, engine humming like it didn't care about goodbyes.

Roseanne walked toward it, pulling her coat tight, and then she paused—right at the door, fingers brushing the handle, but her back turned toward Jennie.

"For the very first time," she said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, "I'm leaving Paris without knowing the name of the girl I spent all my time with."

Jennie stood behind her, frozen. The wind tugged at her coat. The night hung heavy with things unsaid.

"But anyway," Roseanne said, turning with a small smile, "I'm glad I met you, even if you're still a mystery, see ya bunny cheeks."

Jennie exhaled, gave her the briefest of waves, and took a step back from the curb.

Roseanne got into the car. The door shut with a quiet thud.

And just like that—she was gone.

The tail lights blinked red, the car eased into the street, and Jennie stood there watching until the sleek silhouette disappeared behind the line of old town buildings. Her hand dropped slowly to her side.

She thought she'd feel lighter. She thought maybe she'd breathe easier once Roseanne was gone, once the chaos and teasing and grins and unpredictable footsteps left her space. But instead, she stood alone on the curb, and it felt like someone had removed a sound from the world—one she didn't know she'd gotten used to.

She didn't cry.

Jennie wasn't the crying kind.

But she didn't go home right away either. She walked. Through cobbled alleys and quiet streets. Past late-night cafés and shuttered bookstores. She walked until the stars were too faint to count and her footsteps echoed louder than her thoughts.

Because no matter how much she tried to pretend she didn't care, no matter how many times she told herself she was just "tolerating" Roseanne—

That bracelet wasn't just a trinket.

It was a thread she didn't mean to tie.
And maybe, just maybe, it tied something back.

~

A month had passed.

Thirty-two days, to be exact—Jennie had counted. Not on purpose, but the dates on her phone, the little digital square that held her reminders and appointments, stared back at her like time had been mocking her all along.

She thought she'd get over it. Like every other unexpected encounter in her life, she believed it would dissolve into memory, slip into the background noise of her daily rhythm—the way people pass through subway trains or glance at each other on street corners. Meaningless, fleeting. Paris was full of strangers. Encounters in this city were meant to be romanticized, not remembered.

But the world didn't go on as it usually did. Or rather, it did—and that was the problem. Everything moved like clockwork while Jennie stood still.

Roseanne may come back tomorrow, but she may also not return for months. Or years. Or never.

That unpredictability gnawed at something in Jennie that she didn't even realize was sensitive.

She tried to distract herself. Hung out with her friends. They drank warm coffee and cold wine, laughed under café awnings and shared gossip with the ease of years gone by. They joked about professors and student recitals, about jobs and dates that didn't work out, about exes and futures they didn't yet believe in.

Jennie was there for all of it—but not really.

Because there was always something slightly off. Like she was watching the world from the other side of a glass window. She laughed when they laughed, smiled when they smiled. But she couldn't feel it.

Then there were the weekends, where her dad would try to pry her out of her sullen quietness with father-daughter golf mornings. He was suspiciously energetic, perhaps aware of a shift in his daughter he couldn't quite name. They hit the green, took swings, and talked in casual tones. But Jennie couldn't focus. Her hands felt heavy around the club. Her gaze would drift too easily.

And her father would notice—he always noticed—but say nothing.

Maybe Jennie just needed music.

She sat at her upright piano one rainy afternoon, the clouds dull and hanging low over Montmartre. Her fingers hovered over the ivory keys. The apartment was quiet save for the occasional groan of the wind and the rain tickling the glass panes like it wanted to be let in.

She pressed the first key.

A low A. Soft. Hollow.

She followed with a B, then D. It should've been a melody she could hum in her sleep, but it didn't sound right. Her fingers stumbled. The sound faltered. Nothing poured out.

Jennie's breath hitched. She stopped.

She started again. Another key. Then another. But all that came out was a sequence of melancholic tones—chords that didn't match, harmonies that were meant to lift but dragged instead. Minor. Echoed.

The kind of music that made your throat ache.

Jennie blinked once, her hands frozen above the keys.

And then, without warning, a tear slipped down her cheek.

She hadn't meant to cry. It wasn't like her. She was the calm one, the contained one, the steady hand in storms. She had known pain—she had watched her mother wither away too soon, had held her father's hand at the funeral in Seoul when she was too young to understand grief fully, but old enough to carry it.

But this?

Crying over someone like Roseanne?

A stranger. A red flag. A storm in designer boots and chaos tucked behind a confident grin.

Jennie sniffed and wiped at her cheek roughly, scolding herself under her breath. "Pathetic."

But it was too late.

The realization sat in her chest like an anchor thrown into the ocean floor.

She fell.

Harder than she should have. Harder than she thought was even possible for someone she'd known for what—weeks? Casual afternoons, impromptu lunches, stolen minutes on the streets of Paris?

It didn't matter. Something in Roseanne had burrowed into her like a seed in cracked pavement—unexpected, uninvited, but stubborn. And the worst part wasn't even that she missed her.

It was that Jennie wasn't supposed to.

Roseanne was everything she had been warned about. Wild. Reckless. Free-spirited to a fault. Emotionally unavailable. Honest in the way only people who don't want attachments could afford to be. And Jennie? Jennie was the opposite. Safe. Structured. Responsible. Held together by piano chords and duty and decades of discipline.

She wasn't supposed to fall for someone like Roseanne.

And yet here she was.

The bracelet Roseanne had worn when she left—Jennie saw it every time she closed her eyes. The way her smile looked different that night, quieter, maybe even sadder. The gentle curiosity in her voice when she'd said, "I'm leaving Paris without knowing the name of the girl I spent all my time with."

Jennie never told her. Not even once.

Not her full name. Not the name she grew into when her mother died. Not the name her father whispered when he thought she was asleep. Not the name that once meant music, then silence, then music again.

And now it felt like a missed note.

She stood up from the piano, heart beating too fast. The silence in the room pressed around her ears. The tear on her cheek had dried, but the weight in her chest remained.

There was no fixing this. No rewinding the clock.

Jennie had to live with it—the knowledge that she let something real pass her by. That she ran from the chaos and didn't admit the truth when it mattered. That she hadn't even had the courage to ask her to stay.

~

It had begun to snow hours before the sun had set.

Thin flakes first, brushing rooftops and tree branches like powdered sugar shaken from the sky. Then heavier, sticking to cobblestones, nestling into the folds of scarves and the tops of berets. Paris, always a city of elegance and light, took on the glow of a snow globe—enchanted and serene, the kind of December magic Jennie remembered from her childhood. But that was the thing with memories, wasn't it? They warmed the past and made the present feel colder.

Jennie pulled her coat tighter as she stepped out of the car. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble of the fashion house's private hall, and the scent of designer perfume, champagne, and distant pine met her first. Lights flashed behind tall frosted windows. Inside, the after-party had already begun, a symphony of camera shutters, clinking glasses, and laughter from the effortlessly glamorous. She could hear it all before she even reached the door.

It was Christmas in Paris.

At twenty-four, Jennie was no stranger to it. Her first Christmas in this city was when she was ten—still tender from the move, still adjusting to the grief-shaped silence at home after her mother's death. But that Christmas had been something out of a dream. Her father had taken her to Champs-Élysées, where she held his gloved hand and sipped warm cider as they stared at a carousel spinning slowly under golden lights. He'd bought her a snow globe that night. She still kept it on her piano.

Paris had never disappointed her.

Even now, the city was radiant. Trees towered across plazas, their ornaments like jewels. Choirs hummed from street corners. Lovers kissed under strings of mistletoe at sidewalk cafés. Every street felt alive, like it was singing its own carol.

But Jennie didn't feel like singing.

She smiled when she had to. She let herself get ready, slipped into a fitted black velvet dress that grazed her knees, added a silver pendant and a pair of heels she hadn't worn in years. Her friends had coaxed her into attending the event. "You need something exciting," Irene—The only person Jennie told Roseanne about—had said as she dusted blush on her cheeks. "And let's face it, you can't sulk in your studio forever."

Jennie had agreed. Because maybe she did need the lights. The people. The clatter of glasses and the low hum of fashion elites pretending to be chill. A distraction. Anything.

She hadn't seen Roseanne in five months.

And she'd tried to convince herself it didn't matter.

That Roseanne had just been one of those things. A passing phase. A fascinating encounter wrapped in allure and timing and unspoken goodbyes. Jennie had told herself all the right things. That it wasn't real. That it was just brief chemistry. That maybe the universe had offered her a moment of closeness just to remind her how fleeting connection could be.

But it had stayed.

It stayed in her music—the pause between chords, the aching silences. It stayed in her walks—the way she found herself at the riverbank, where she'd bought that bracelet. It stayed in her hands, in the stillness of her chest when she tried to write something new and ended up staring at the page instead.

It stayed like a bruise that never turned yellow.

And now, tonight, it returned in full color.

Jennie had been halfway through a glass of dry white wine, listening to someone talk about sustainable silk when it happened. Just a glance, a flicker of movement from across the room—and there she was.

Roseanne.

Exactly how Jennie remembered her. And not at all.

She was laughing, her teeth white against her cherry lips. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, an elegant black-and-gold jacket thrown over a shimmering bronze dress that shimmered with each movement. In one hand, she held a flute of champagne. In the other, she rested her arm casually across the shoulder of a girl Jennie didn't know—petite, probably younger, in a short sequined dress and a flirtatious smile.

Time thinned.

Jennie didn't blink. Didn't move.

Her glass hovered mid-air before she realized her fingers had tightened around the stem.

And then, without another breath, she turned.

She didn't look again.

She couldn't.

The hallway outside was quieter, painted in muted gold and old echoes. Jennie leaned against the cold marble wall, exhaling through her nose, biting down on the tremble in her chest like it was a child's secret. Her clutch dug into her palm. Her breath caught somewhere beneath her ribs.

Why had she come?

She could've said no. Could've stayed home and played something on her keyboard until her fingers numbed. Could've gone to midnight mass or buried herself under blankets. Anything.

She wasn't ready for this.

For the clarity.

For the way her heart had leapt and dropped like a broken metronome.

For the sudden, raw realization that what she felt hadn't dimmed. That time had not turned her ache into fondness. That she wasn't over Roseanne.

Not even close.

Because she had never just liked her.

She had fallen.

Fallen in the way one does when they least expect it. Not with planning or purpose, but like breath being knocked out of lungs. She had fallen in the quiet moments—between Roseanne's offhand comments, the way she laughed with her eyes closed, the way she'd sat at that picnic like the world owed her nothing and yet gave her everything.

Jennie pressed a hand to her chest.

Five months. It had been five months. Shouldn't that be enough?

She had tried to move on. God, she had tried. Dinners with friends. Long walks. Nights filled with scores and compositions and meaningless conversations. She had even started dating someone, briefly—a cellist Irene had set her up with. It hadn't lasted. Nothing ever did when your heart was still caught in someone else's orbit.

You're just a stranger, Jennie reminded herself. A stranger she had a Paris summer with. That's all.

But the pain said otherwise.

She didn't go back inside.

The cold marble of the railing pressed into Jennie's palms as she leaned forward slightly, her wine glass forgotten beside her. Her breath spiraled into the air in soft curls, mist vanishing into the night like half-spoken thoughts. She needed the chill, needed the distance between herself and the clinking glasses, the low buzz of voices behind her. The party continued inside without pause—camera flashes, champagne flutes, easy laughter flowing through the high-ceilinged room. Socialites, designers, influencers, and the orbit of wealth that circled them. Jennie was never one of them, and tonight, the truth of it pressed down heavier than usual.

She turned back toward the ballroom, determined to disappear. She'd slip past the crowd, wave something polite to her friends, and disappear into the cool Paris night where she could walk and think and forget.

But just as her heel turned toward the door, she saw her.

Roseanne stepped into the room like she owned it—not in the arrogant way Jennie sometimes saw in people who were used to getting what they wanted, but in that effortless, magnetic way that made everyone glance twice. She wore an off-white coat over her dress, unbuttoned at the collar, with her hair loosely curled over one shoulder. There was a quiet command in the way she walked, her eyes scanning the room quickly before landing—barely—for a heartbeat in Jennie's direction.

And then, she walked past.

Jennie's stomach twisted. For a moment she was suspended in stillness, watching the space where Roseanne had stood seconds before, feeling the echo of her presence without its warmth. She forgot me. The thought crept in, uninvited and venomous, souring everything around her. Of course Roseanne would forget. What had Jennie expected? That she'd still remember that night at the riverbank? That she'd recall their scattered moments, short and silly and heavy with the kind of tension Jennie had refused to name?

She reached again for the wine glass, fingers trembling slightly from something she refused to acknowledge.

But then—soft footsteps. Then stillness. Then the shift of presence behind her.

Jennie turned her head.

Roseanne was already smiling, the corners of her eyes lit with something almost childlike. And before Jennie could fully register the movement, those same hands—soft and familiar—cupped her cheeks gently, squeezing them with that nickname spoken in a laugh, "Bunny cheeks."

Jennie's heart lurched so hard in her chest it felt like a warning. Roseanne's hands were warm, tender, her thumbs grazing the apple of her cheeks with ease, as if no time had passed, as if this were their natural state.

Jennie flinched—not violently, but with enough of a pause that Roseanne read it. Her arms hovered mid-air, unsure, as if she'd remembered something late. She was about to hug her. And Jennie knew, deep in the places she didn't often visit, that one hug would be the death of her composure.

"Don't," she murmured, more to herself than to Roseanne.

Roseanne chuckled, stepping back with a knowing look. "Still grumpy," she said, her tone affectionate rather than accusing. "You haven't changed a bit."

She gave Jennie's cheek one last playful pinch before folding her arms. The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was charged, static with unspoken things and half-swallowed questions.

Then Roseanne said casually, as if it wasn't a small earthquake in Jennie's world, "I'll be in Paris for a few weeks. For the magazine shoot and some brand thing. You know how it is."

Jennie didn't know. But she nodded anyway.

Roseanne tilted her head, her expression softening. "Wanna hang out? Catch up?"

And Jennie—Jennie should have said no.

She should've reminded herself of the months it took to breathe without thinking of her, of the ache that burrowed so quietly and thoroughly into her bones that it took a song in a minor key to shake a tear loose. She should've remembered how she convinced herself to forget, how many times she stared at her phone late at night, wondering what Roseanne was doing, and stopped herself from ever browsing her. She should've remembered all of that.

But she didn't.

Or maybe she did and chose to ignore it.

Because Roseanne was here. Real. The same smile, the same voice, the same casual way she invited herself into Jennie's silence like it belonged to her.

Jennie shouldn't agree.

But she did.

She nodded, quietly, without looking up. Her voice barely more than a breath. "Okay."

Roseanne's smile bloomed instantly, warm and dazzling under the string of fairy lights that framed the balcony doors. "Great," she said, like they had made a plan to meet for coffee next week and not like she'd just cracked Jennie's barely-healed heart open all over again.

There was a comfortable pause—comfortable only because neither dared to prod at it too hard—before Roseanne added, "Want me to walk you out? You look like you're about to vanish."

"I was," Jennie said.

"Tragic," Roseanne replied with a grin, "considering I just found you."

They left the balcony together, not hand in hand, not touching—but the space between them was filled with a kind of awareness that made every step feel heavier than it should. Jennie said goodbye to her friends in brief, distracted phrases, while Roseanne waited by the hallway with a patience that didn't match her usual restless energy.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, tiny flakes catching the light from passing cars and shop windows, Paris wrapped in a kind of holiday hush. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, just breathing.

Jennie didn't know what any of it meant. She didn't know what Roseanne wanted or if she should hope again or if she was walking back into the kind of ache she wouldn't be able to crawl out from.

But she knew she was tired of pretending.

And that maybe—for just a little while longer—she wanted to believe that the woman who once left her with only silence could offer something else this time.

~

The room was bathed in quiet. Just the occasional creak of the radiator, the distant hum of a car along the Seine, and the glow of streetlamps sneaking through the edge of the curtain. Jennie lay flat on her back, fingers clasped loosely over her stomach, her eyes unmoving from the ceiling. Above her, suspended by a thin, near-invisible string, was the paper star lantern, soft light bleeding through the tiny cut-out holes. It was gold and white, shaped like something magical, and the way it twirled faintly in the warm air of the heater made it shimmer like something alive.

It reminded her of her very first Christmas in Paris.

She was ten. Lost in the strangeness of a new country, their unfamiliar apartment smelling of old wood and lavender cleaner. She couldn't sleep that night. The walls creaked differently here. The lights outside were harsher. She remembered curling up in a blanket near the window, too tired to cry, too awake to rest.

Her father had found her like that. Without a word, he knelt beside her with a smile and produced a small pack of glittery star stickers from his coat pocket. "To trap some magic in here," he had said. Then, he gently guided her to stick them on the ceiling with him—one by one—until she was yawning through her laughter, her head growing heavy from the distraction. "Your mom's in the stars," he had whispered as he tucked her in that night, brushing her bangs from her forehead. "She's peaceful there. Maybe if you look at them long enough, you'll feel her too."

Jennie did. And somehow, she still did.

The memory curled around her chest with aching familiarity. She didn't cry then, and she wouldn't cry now.

She rubbed her eyes when they stung anyway, the pad of her thumb pressing against her lids. She refused to let the salt fall. Not tonight.

She could go to her father, she knew that. He was always there, always trying—he'd notice eventually, anyway. But she didn't want to trouble him, not when he was already half-swallowed by work, cases, and closed files that refused to remain closed. He'd tell her it was okay, that she didn't need to explain herself. But some conversations didn't belong between the lines of tired coffee mugs and late-night dinner trays.

If her mother were here...

Jennie exhaled deeply, lips parting like she could breathe her mother's name into the air. If her mother were here, she would've known before Jennie could say a word. She would've asked softly, waited patiently. And Jennie—Jennie wouldn't have hesitated. She would've folded into her warmth and confessed, not just the simple truth that she was in love with a girl, but the deeper, messier truth that this love was terrifying. That it pulled at her like a wave that didn't let her surface long enough to breathe. That she couldn't think straight when she saw Roseanne's smile or heard her voice echo too long in her mind.

Jennie rolled over onto her side, arm tucked under her head. The lantern still glowed above, a false star that held so many truths.

She didn't know when it happened—maybe it was that morning at the café when Roseanne tried to teach her how to fold a paper crane and ended up with something that looked more like a mangled frog. Maybe it was during their aimless strolls down the riverside, when the world quieted between them. Or maybe it was always there, waiting, blooming slow and inevitable like a tide that pulled her further and further in without notice.

But love was never simple.

With love came fear—Jennie learned that the hard way. It clung to her ribs, tight and unrelenting. Fear of rejection, of breaking something fragile, of watching Roseanne turn away, eyes dull and voice polite, and realizing she made a mistake by hoping.

Because Jennie knew something not many others did.

Her father's case files hadn't stayed locked.

She'd seen the notes. Read the summaries. "Disengaged post-confession," her father had scribbled in one of the margins. "Abrupt relocation. Pattern?"

Every person who got close enough to Roseanne to fall, to reach for her with a name for what they felt, watched her vanish. It was like her presence was a dream, and the moment reality touched her, she scattered like fog.

Jennie didn't want that.

She didn't want to watch Roseanne smile at her like a stranger.

She didn't want to lose her—not again.

Even now, even with those weeks back in Paris unfolding softly, full of text messages and late-night chats, coffee orders and inside jokes rekindled—Jennie felt like she was standing on a wire. Any wrong move, any misplaced word could shatter it all.

So she kept her secret tucked in the hollow of her chest.

The next morning had a kind of golden stillness to it, a hush that hung over the city like a well-kept secret. Snow had settled on the sidewalks, not thick, but soft and powdery, coating the world in a sheen of frost. The occasional passerby moved with a kind of languid joy, scarves wrapped tightly, hands gloved, eyes wide at the charm Paris never failed to wear on Christmas Eve. Even the Seine looked quieter, like the city was holding its breath for something—perhaps midnight, perhaps magic.

Jennie stood in front of Hôtel Plaza Athénée, glancing up at the elegant red awnings and the delicate ironwork balconies that lined the façade like lace. She took a deep breath, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hands were buried in the pockets of her long brown coat, worn over an ivory crop top and well-fitted jeans. A far cry from the glittering silhouettes and extravagant dresses that filled the fashion week parties, but Roseanne had never been one to demand spectacle from her. At least not when they were alone.

Room 116. The number felt etched into her memory, like a page she had dog-eared too many times.

She knocked softly.

The door opened a second later, and there stood Roseanne—hair tousled, cheeks slightly flushed, wearing an oversized powder-blue sweatshirt with fleece shorts and no makeup except the faintest gloss on her lips. Her eyes swept over Jennie's outfit, and her mouth curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well, damn," Roseanne whistled low, stepping aside to let her in. "You could pass as a model. You want me to put in a word? I know people."

Jennie rolled her eyes, stepping inside, brushing past the faint warmth of Roseanne's laugh. "Modeling's not my thing," she said. "Music is."

The suite hadn't changed much—sunlight poured through the tall windows, throwing warm patterns across the rug. The scent of citrus and faint vanilla lingered in the air, maybe from Roseanne's perfume or one of those artisanal candles she always seemed to pick up wherever she went. On the coffee table, there was an untouched glass of orange juice and a plate of buttery croissants, still steaming.

Roseanne flopped back on the couch and motioned to the armchair across from her. "Fine, no runway for you. But you'd rock it. I'd pay to see you walk in heels and not look like a wounded deer."

Jennie smirked. "I'd rather be behind a piano than behind a camera."

"Of course you would." Roseanne leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, her bare legs tucked under her. "So, since I proposed this hangout, I suppose you want me to play host?"

Jennie raised a brow. "Isn't that how it works?"

Roseanne narrowed her eyes with a grin. "Touché."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just familiar. Jennie's eyes wandered around the room, noticing the way Roseanne's suitcase was half-open on the bed, clothes spilling in a lazy heap. A scarf draped across the arm of the couch, her phone charging by the nightstand, and Jennie realized with a quiet throb in her chest that this felt strangely like home. Like something she could slip into too easily.

Roseanne sat up, her gaze suddenly alert. "I want to go to the Christmas markets."

Jennie blinked. "Now?"

"Yes, now. I haven't had mulled wine yet, and I want to eat churros. And you"—she pointed at Jennie with mock seriousness—"are my designated hangout buddy."

Jennie chuckled despite herself. "Alright. But I'm not letting you buy another coat. You already have, like, six."

"They're all for different vibes," Roseanne argued, grabbing her phone and coat. "You wouldn't understand. Fashion is a lifestyle."

Jennie stood with a roll of her eyes. "You're insufferable."

"And you love it."

Jennie didn't answer, but the truth hung in the silence like breath on glass.

They made their way through the city, wrapped in layers, boots crunching against slush, and scarves shielding them from the biting cold. The market at Tuileries Garden was alive with festive color and bustling cheer. Wooden stalls were decked in garlands and twinkling fairy lights, the air fragrant with cinnamon, roasting chestnuts, and melting chocolate. Children dragged sleds behind them, couples huddled close with steaming cups in hand, and street musicians filled the air with carols.

Jennie hadn't been to the market in years.

"I always forget how beautiful this is," she murmured, tucking her hands deeper into her pockets.

Roseanne handed her a cup of mulled wine. "You live here. That's your problem."

Jennie took the cup. Their fingers brushed, and her heart stumbled a beat.

They spent hours wandering—tasting samples from food stalls, laughing over clumsy ice skating, and arguing over which tree ornament was the ugliest. Roseanne took a particular interest in the most obnoxiously glittery star she could find, holding it up to Jennie's face and declaring, "It's you. Shiny and judgmental."

Jennie rolled her eyes but bought it anyway.

By late afternoon, they were sitting on a bench near the carousel, cheeks pink from the cold, warmth of the wine lingering in their chests. Roseanne leaned against Jennie's shoulder, unbothered by the world, like she'd never left Paris, like nothing had ever changed.

Jennie could've stayed there forever.

But forever was a dangerous thought.

Roseanne's voice broke the quiet. "Thanks for coming today."

Jennie glanced at her. "You asked me to."

"Still." Roseanne looked up, her smile softer now. "You didn't have to say yes."

Jennie looked away, toward the spinning carousel, the children's laughter, the snowflakes beginning to fall again.

"No," she whispered, "but I wanted to."

And it was the truth. Despite everything—despite the fear, despite the ache that bloomed and throbbed every time she remembered that this, too, could end without warning—Jennie wanted this.

~

The snow crunched faintly beneath the soles of their boots as they walked away from the carousel, the laughter of strangers fading behind them like a song trailing to its end. Paris around them glimmered, dressed in gold and white for the holidays, but Jennie barely saw it. The lights didn't matter. The people didn't matter. Even the cold that crept into her fingertips was muted by the silent, persistent drumbeat in her chest. The one that always grew louder whenever Roseanne was near.

Jennie had hoped that maybe walking would silence it, make things feel less tangled. But it didn't.

She glanced sideways at the taller woman beside her—golden hair a bit tousled from the wind, that same effortless beauty that Jennie had resented for months now simply because it made forgetting impossible. And still, Roseanne walked like none of it mattered. Like the city bowed for her and she didn't even notice.

And then she leaned again—again—resting her head gently on Jennie's shoulder, as if nothing about their history was complicated.

Jennie froze for a moment before shaking her head, exhaling sharply, and shrugged her off. It wasn't harsh, but it was enough to make Roseanne's head bounce upright, her lips parting in a small, startled smile.

Jennie turned, facing her now, arms crossed. Her lips parted, and she tried to speak—tried to say the thousands of thoughts spiraling inside her head, but they knotted up at her throat. Was she seriously about to ask Roseanne why she'd been driving her insane for five months? Why she showed up in her dreams and her piano chords and in her father's concerned glances whenever Jennie got lost in thought at dinner?

How could she say that without sounding stupid?

Her mouth opened again, only for her to let out a frustrated sigh.

"You're so confusing," she muttered finally, like it was the only thing her brain could settle on.

Roseanne tilted her head, her soft pink lips curling at the corners. "That's fair."

"No, really," Jennie said, pacing a few steps to the side, her hands shoved in her coat pockets. "You're like—someone who could go years without a label. You float around people, you love them, you touch them, you kiss them maybe—but you never define any of it. That's not how I work."

Roseanne's brows rose, intrigued. "And how do you work then, bunny cheeks?"

Jennie shot her a look but kept going, her voice sharper than intended. "I label things. I date them. Even the messy compositions I throw in the bin—they're labeled. Rough take. October 3rd, 1:17 a.m. Everything has time and place and category. It's how I make sense of the world."

Roseanne's grin spread. "Wow. You're really that much of a nerd, huh?"

"I'm not—" Jennie faltered. "I'm not a nerd."

"You're such a nerd," Roseanne teased, poking her arm. "You're a nerd about your feelings, your music, your life. You probably alphabetize your Spotify playlists."

"I don't—" Jennie paused, blinked. "Okay, that's not the point."

Roseanne laughed, soft and melodic, clearly entertained. "You probably have color-coded notes for every emotion you feel. Like, blue for sadness, red for rage, pink for—"

"Okay, now you're just making things up," Jennie huffed.

"I'm right though."

Jennie rolled her eyes and looked away, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She hated that Roseanne could do this—diffuse every serious moment like it was a joke, like it wasn't a storm turning Jennie's insides upside down.

Roseanne glanced at her again, more thoughtfully this time. "You're not wrong, though," she admitted. "We're not alike. I don't make plans. I jump city to city. I don't do... rules. Or definitions. I live in chaos. You live in harmony."

Jennie snorted. "I've never once described my life as harmonious."

"You know what I mean," Roseanne said with a soft shrug. "You make sense of things. You need things to fit. I don't."

Jennie was quiet a moment, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her bag. "Then why are you even hanging out with me? We're not... compatible."

Roseanne's smile faded, her expression shifting into something unreadable. "I ask myself that too sometimes."

Jennie turned to look at her, brows pulling together.

"But then I remember," Roseanne continued. "You make me want to make sense. Even when I don't know how. Being around you... it quiets some of the noise."

Jennie blinked, stunned.

Roseanne looked down at her boots, scuffing the pavement absently. "I think that's what scared me, honestly. You're not like anyone I've been with. You don't get caught in my spell and drift away. You make me... real."

That struck something inside Jennie. A chord, low and aching.

She rubbed her arm, trying to hide how that affected her. "You make me feel like I'm losing control."

Roseanne looked at her with something softer than a smile. "That's what I mean. We mess each other up."

Jennie couldn't help it—she laughed, bitter and breathy. "We shouldn't be in each other's lives."

"No," Roseanne agreed. "We shouldn't."

Silence again. A long one.

"But here we are," Roseanne added after a beat, stepping closer, her voice quieter. "Still showing up. Still... not leaving."

Jennie stared at her, the distance between them suddenly feeling microscopic. Her eyes fell to Roseanne's lips, then flicked back up.

The silence between them cracked like frost beneath footsteps—fragile, sharp, inevitable.

For a second, Jennie had allowed herself to believe. Just one breath, one beat of her traitorous heart, where hope bloomed like a fragile thing between the ribs. Maybe Roseanne did feel something. Maybe, in the chaos of her golden life, in the glimmer of champagne smiles and silk gowns and careless midnight departures, there was a quiet place carved out just for Jennie.

But the hope barely had time to take root before Roseanne—true to form—smiled that sly, devastating smile and added with a casual toss of her golden hair, "Don't get any ideas though. I still like to keep things messy and label-free. Chaos suits me better, don't you think?"

Of course Roseanne had to ruin it. With her stupid, sarcastic comment that hung too light for how heavy Jennie felt. With her smirk that never gave anything away and her voice that could talk circles around sincerity. Jennie rolled her eyes so forcefully it almost hurt, before throwing a soft, frustrated punch against Roseanne's chest.

It wasn't even about the joke. Not really.

"You're impossible," Jennie muttered, shaking her head as she walked away, trying to reclaim some distance that didn't come.

Roseanne followed, that ever-present grin still etched on her lips like she hadn't noticed Jennie unraveling from the seams. "Why is that always the first thing you say to me when I'm being myself?" she teased, amused like nothing was wrong.

Jennie turned around sharply. Her voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the festive hum of the city around them. "Because everything's a game to you," she said. "Everything is playful. Everything is light."

Roseanne blinked, still smiling, but it faltered. Just a bit.

Jennie continued, her chest tightening with each word, breath struggling to stay steady. "You flirt with people you don't care about. You touch them like they matter, and then disappear like they don't. You say things like they mean nothing. And when someone actually feels something for you, you pretend not to notice, or worse—you make it into a joke."

Roseanne's shoulders tensed. "I don't—"

"Some people just fall, Roseanne," Jennie said, her voice growing stronger. "They feel more than they should. Not everything is surface-deep. Just because your heart is—" she hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek, "emotionless... doesn't mean others are too."

The words sliced through the air, harsher than she intended. But they were real. And she couldn't hold them back anymore.

Jennie crossed her arms and took a step back. "The people you've been with, the ones that get left behind... you think none of them felt anything? You really think none of them stayed up wondering what went wrong, what they could've done differently to make you stay?"

Roseanne flinched, just slightly, but it was enough. Enough to make Jennie press harder.

"Different people every other week. If I listed the tabloids of your latest flings, I'd run out of fingers."

"I'm not that cruel," Roseanne said quickly, and for the first time, her voice didn't sound as sure. It was quiet. Bare. Like she was defending something more fragile than ego.

Jennie scoffed, not bothering to hide her bitterness. "Aren't you?"

Roseanne's hand reached out before Jennie could react, fingers curling gently around her arm—not forceful, but firm enough to make her pause.

"If that's how you see me," Roseanne said, "then you don't know me at all."

And that's when Jennie saw it—the flicker. Just the faintest flicker of emotion behind Roseanne's carefully guarded expression. A moment of something raw, unsaid, unpolished. It passed too quickly, but it was there. Hurt. Not rage. Not indifference. Just... disappointment.

It almost made Jennie falter. Almost.

But that emotion too was a flicker. And Jennie had learned the hard way not to chase after flickers. Not to chase after light that couldn't warm her.

She scoffed, shoving Roseanne's hand away. "You always say that like it matters. Like knowing you would somehow make it all better."

And then she turned. Walked. This time with finality in her steps, though her chest screamed to turn back. But she didn't.

Behind her, Roseanne didn't call out. The silence that followed wasn't like before—it was heavier, colder. And Jennie hated that part of her wanted to hear footsteps chasing her down.

But none came.

She walked out of the market street and into the soft hum of Christmas Eve, the world dressed in gold and white, like a scene stolen from a postcard. Families gathered near corner cafés, their laughter spilling into the air like music. Lights shimmered on every tree, every storefront, every window.

But Jennie felt like she was walking alone through the middle of it all, untouched by the joy that surrounded her.

It wasn't fair, she thought. That someone like Roseanne could tangle herself into Jennie's life like sunlight through shutters—always slipping away before Jennie could hold it. That Roseanne could say all the right things and mean none of them. That she could pull Jennie into her orbit, and never once ask her if she wanted to be there.

Jennie reached into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing the edge of her phone, the last text from her father still sitting unopened. A simple, "Where are you, kiddo?" sent hours ago. She hadn't responded. She didn't know what to say.

Because how could she explain what this was? How could she explain that her heart felt both too full and too empty at the same time?

How could she explain that she'd fallen in love with someone who didn't believe in love?

How could she say that despite everything, despite the way Roseanne laughed things off, despite the tabloids and the half-meant smiles and the endless disappearing acts—despite all of it—she still cared?

Jennie stopped at a quiet intersection, the sound of distant carolers filling the silence around her. She looked up at the pale winter sky, the stars just beginning to bloom behind drifting clouds.

She wondered, for a moment, if her mother would've understood. If she were still here, would she have told Jennie that loving someone complicated wasn't a weakness? That sometimes, love doesn't make sense—not in its arrival or its absence?

Maybe she would've said that it's okay to walk away, even if your heart stays behind.

Maybe she would've reminded her that love, real love, doesn't make you feel small. It doesn't make you question your worth. It doesn't leave you standing alone in a city that was supposed to feel like magic.

Jennie blinked hard, forcing back the sting in her eyes. No tears. Not tonight.

She took a breath, turned the corner, and kept walking. The night would pass. And so would this ache. And maybe tomorrow, she'd remember how to play her music again.

Maybe tomorrow, she'd stop looking for Roseanne in every song.

~

The doors of Hôtel Plaza Athénée swung shut behind her with a soft click, but Roseanne didn't head straight for the elevator. Instead, she paused in the glittering marble lobby, her fingers twitching at her side like they were trying to reach for something that wasn't there. Suite 116 waited above—quiet, pristine, lonely. But tonight, it felt heavier than usual, as if even the silence in it would demand answers she wasn't ready to face.

She turned on her heel.

The night air outside had grown crisper, and the velvet warmth of her coat didn't do much to muffle the cold she felt prickling against her skin. Not the kind of cold that came from wind or winter, but from within—the kind that settled in your bones when you've said too little or too much.

She needed a drink.

Roseanne found herself walking toward a familiar corner near Avenue Montaigne, where the expensive shops gave way to dim-lit bistros and hole-in-the-wall places that didn't ask questions. The bar she entered was narrow and modern, tucked between a florist and a shuttered bookstore. The lighting was warm, tinged with amber, and the place hummed with quiet jazz and low voices, a stark contrast from the grandeur she'd come from.

She made her way to the counter, shrugged off her coat, and slipped onto one of the stools, running a hand through her tousled golden hair. The bartender, a woman with silver piercings and heavy eyeliner, approached with a nod.

"A beer, please," Roseanne murmured, her voice low.

As the bartender poured, Roseanne slumped slightly, resting her elbow on the counter. She didn't usually drink beer—her tastes ran expensive and rare—but tonight wasn't about taste. It was about grounding herself. About silencing the storm in her chest with something blunt and numbing.

She brought the glass to her lips and took a sip, eyes roaming blankly over the glinting rows of liquor bottles behind the counter.

Why did this girl get under her skin?

She'd left plenty of people behind before. Women who looked at her like she held the stars in her palm, who dreamed about forever while Roseanne was still thinking about whether she wanted dessert. She ghosted them all. Not with pride, not with cruelty—but with practiced detachment. It was easier that way. Cleaner. You don't owe people explanations when you never promise them anything in the first place.

But this girl.

Bunny cheeks.

She didn't even know her real name. Hadn't asked. Hadn't dared to.

Just those cheeks. Roseanne could recognize them from miles away—rosy, soft, blooming with life. And the eyes—dark and serious, filled with all the weight of someone who felt too much for her own good.

She knew next to nothing about her. Just the hint of music in her life. The way her fingers moved—delicate and certain—when they brushed the side of her coat, when they reached for her glass. The way her mouth curled when she was amused but didn't want to admit it. And those words. Raw. Unfiltered. Like truth tasted bitter on her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway.

Roseanne took another long drink, eyes narrowed at her own reflection in the bar's back mirror.

She had no right to feel anything. None. But something inside her twisted in the same way it had the night Jennie walked away—like something valuable was slipping out of reach, and for once, she actually cared.

She rubbed her temple and reached for her drink again.

Then, a presence beside her. Someone sliding into the next stool. A warm, cologne-heavy scent drifted over. A hand landed on her shoulder with a certain boldness—firm, unwelcome.

She turned her head slowly, eyes sharp, every instinct in her spine tensing.

The man was maybe in his late forties, tan suit too sharp for this bar, a smirk curving beneath a trimmed beard. "Bonsoir, belle dame," he said in a low, smooth French, then switched to English. "Didn't expect to find someone like you alone."

Roseanne raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I like being alone."

He grinned wider, undeterred, and extended a hand toward her. "Antonio."

Then, with a mock pistol gesture—thumb and index finger aimed at her, like a child playing gangster—he clicked his tongue. "Bang."

The sound sent a jolt through her spine, and not from flirtation.

Her stomach dropped.

The gesture. The name. The smirk.

It took a second. But then it landed.

The masked man. The night in her suite, the gloved hands, the cold voice warning her she was a dead woman. And then, the way the panic shifted in his eyes when she screamed her name, when he realized—

She wasn't the woman he was meant to kill.

Roseanne's fingers tightened around her glass.

She gave a polite, measured smile and reached out to shake his hand. Her palm was ice-cold, but steady. She couldn't show a single crack.

"Roseanne," she said coolly, giving him the name he already knew, because hiding was futile. "Nice to meet you....again"

"Pleasure's mine," Antonio said, eyes glinting with mischief—or menace. Maybe both. "I didn't think you'd still be in Paris."

"I like the cold," she said smoothly. "Helps keep me sharp."

Antonio chuckled, swirling the whiskey that had been placed before him. "Sharp's good. You'll need it."

She tilted her head. "That sounds ominous."

"Not at all," he said. "Just... friendly advice. You see, Paris is full of the unexpected. People run into each other. Mistaken identities, accidents, secrets. It's a small city, really."

"Is it?" Roseanne replied, her voice silky. "And here I thought it was bursting with new faces."

"Some faces you don't forget," he said, holding her gaze now. "Even if you only saw them once. Even if you had the wrong file."

Her fingers twitched beneath the counter, close to the pepper spray she carried in her coat.

"Funny," she murmured. "I could say the same about men who make threats they can't follow through on."

Antonio smiled wider, leaning just a little closer.

"Then I guess we're both not what the other expected."

The silence sat heavy between them, neither moving. The jazz in the background continued to float lazily, as if the air wasn't suddenly electric.

Roseanne gave a light, amused laugh and finished her drink, then stood, adjusting her coat with deliberate calm.

"Well, Antonio," she said, placing a few crisp notes on the counter, "as much as I love surprise reunions, I do have an early morning."

And with that, she walked out of the bar, heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

The chill of the Parisian night had barely seeped into her coat when Roseanne felt a sudden pressure on her shoulder again—Antonio's hand, firm this time, no longer teasing. He turned her slightly with a frown on his face, his dark eyes narrowing with an uncharacteristic seriousness.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, all sarcasm momentarily drained.

Roseanne offered a weary nod, her face still composed but her energy visibly frayed at the edges. "Yeah," she murmured. "Just tired."

Antonio didn't let go. His hand lingered a second longer, eyes scanning her face as if trying to peel back the layers of control she always kept so tightly wound. And maybe he did see a crack, because his frown deepened slightly.

"You look more than tired," he said. "You look messy."

Roseanne let out a dry laugh. "I feel messy."

She turned slightly away, exhaling into the cold air, the breath curling like smoke. Her next words slipped out, barely audible, as though they betrayed her more than she was ready to admit.

"It's a girl."

Antonio blinked. Then, with a slight snort and a crooked smirk, he leaned back, crossing his arms.

"Roseanne Park," he said, dragging out her name like he couldn't quite believe it. "So you also have a typical girl problem."

She shot him a look, half-glare, half-confession. "It's not typical."

"Sure," he said, amused, before pushing further. "So what's her name?"

Roseanne opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She paused, then slowly shook her head, a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness creasing her brow.

"I don't know."

Antonio stared at her, blank for a second. "You're serious?"

She sighed, a bit defeated. "I just call her bunny cheeks."

"Bunny—" Antonio chuckled, clapping a hand over his mouth in disbelief. "You've got a whole existential crisis over a girl you don't even know the name of?"

"I told you it's complicated," she snapped quietly, suddenly defensive.

Antonio held up his hands, still grinning. "Alright, alright. No judgment. It's just... not the usual Roseanne story."

She rubbed her temples with a groan. "Tell me about it."

Without a word, Antonio pulled out his wallet, flipping it open with the smooth ease of a man always transacting. Among a thick stack of euro bills, a few slick cards and creased receipts, he tugged out a matte black business card and held it between two fingers like a magician pulling a trick.

"Here," he said.

Roseanne eyed it suspiciously before taking it.

A single glance at the embossed letters made her go still.
Seojun Kim, Detective
Beneath it, a phone number. An address. No fluff.

She looked up. "What's this?"

"Friend of mine," Antonio said, sliding the wallet back into his pocket. "Well, friend's a strong word. I worked with him once or twice. He's one of those clean detectives, the kind who won't take bribes, which makes him annoying but reliable."

Roseanne raised a brow. "And why would I go to a detective to know a girl's name?"

Antonio shrugged. "Because you've clearly lost your mind," he said bluntly. "And since you don't even have a last name, a number, or a single thread to pull, maybe a professional could help. I mean, it's Paris. She could be anybody. You said it's complicated... maybe that means you need help unraveling it."

Roseanne narrowed her eyes at him. "So you're saying I should investigate a girl who called my shit out?"

"I'm saying," Antonio replied, grinning now, "you're standing here looking like a ghost saw you, and if you're this messed up over a girl whose name you don't know, maybe it's worth knowing. Names matter. Sometimes they're the first key."

He clapped her once on the shoulder, a playful but grounding touch. "You want to act like none of this matters? Fine. But at least don't lie to yourself. I've seen people kill for less confusion than what's sitting on your face right now."

With that, Antonio walked off toward a group of men by the back corner, throwing her a final wink over his shoulder.

Roseanne stood there, fingers closed around the card. She stared down at it again, the gold-embossed text catching the streetlight just enough to glow faintly.

Seojun Kim.

The name was sharp. Formal. Reliable.

She could toss it.

She could forget this whole evening, chalk up the girl as another fleeting fantasy, a one-week muse to slot beside the dozens who came before.

But her hand tightened around the card instead.

Because something about bunny cheeks haunted her.

This wasn't just another girl who giggled at Roseanne's charm and leaned in too fast, too eager. This girl—this quiet, stubborn-eyed, musically wired, slightly nerdy girl—saw her. Saw through her smirks and jokes and flirty deflections. Had stood there today, eyes flashing, voice shaking with emotion, calling her out for her games. She had fought with Roseanne, and strangely, that mattered more than any kisses stolen on rooftops or silk sheets. It was real.

And that flicker on that face—Roseanne didn't need a name to remember it.

Still, she wanted one.

Maybe it didn't mean anything.

Maybe it meant everything.

She wasn't asking for a lifetime. Wasn't asking for a future.

Just a name.

That wasn't so bad, was it?

With the card now slipped into her coat pocket, nestled between her hotel key and lip balm, Roseanne walked slowly back toward the hotel, her mind restless with questions she didn't know how to ask.

Somewhere in Paris tonight, the girl with bunny cheeks probably curled up with her music, her piano, her books. Oblivious to the storm she had left in her wake.

And Roseanne, the queen of ghosting, of forgetting, of walking away without a second glance, for once didn't want to leave this one unnamed.

She just wanted to know who she was. Maybe then, she could understand why the hell her heart hadn't been quiet since the day they met.

~

The room was quiet, except for the hum of the heater and the distant buzz of Parisian traffic outside the window. Christmas lights flickered along the edge of the curtains, casting little gold glows against the ceiling. Jennie lay curled on her side, nestled in her comforter, arms wrapped tight around a well-worn capybara plushie. Its stitched smile and round, oversized body didn't judge her. It never did. She pressed her face against its fuzzy head, sniffling softly, the wet sounds muffled by its synthetic fur.

"Stupid, stupid woman," she muttered into its ear. "Who flirts like that and runs away the next second? Who acts like they care, then laugh it off?"

She sniffled harder, then exhaled through gritted teeth. "Roseanne freaking Park. You messed with the wrong nerd."

Even as she said it, her heart betrayed her. Her hold on the plushie only tightened, and a hot tear slipped past her cheekbone. She let it fall, too tired to wipe it away. The dull ache behind her eyes pulsed. Her nose burned. Everything about her felt swollen and sharp, like emotions too big for her skin.

She didn't hear the knock at first. It was soft, hesitant. The kind her father used when he didn't want to startle her. But she heard the creak of the door hinge, and then the unmistakable heavy footsteps of Detective Kim.

"I'm heading to Lyon on Sunday," he said gently, already half-turned away. "Should be back Tuesday evening. You'll be alright on your own?"

"Yeah," Jennie mumbled into the plushie.

But something in her voice cracked.

He paused, hand still on the doorknob. Then, in the dim light from her desk lamp, he noticed it—the faint shake of her shoulder beneath the blanket. The way she curled in tighter. Detective Kim's eyes softened. It wasn't often he saw his daughter cry. In fact, it had been years. Not since the summer she failed an audition and locked herself in her room for three days, only emerging when he made her spaghetti with too much cheese and left it by her door. Even then, she had only cried silently. Just like now.

"Jennie?" he said more softly.

She didn't respond.

He stepped into the room, his broad frame unusually careful, and sat at the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

"What happened, sweetheart?"

Her back remained turned to him, but her shoulders gave her away. Another tremble. She took a deep breath, clearly trying to keep herself from breaking all the way.

"I'm fine," she said, but the words were watery and weak.

He reached a hand to her blanket-covered shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. His eyes flicked to the small picture frame on her nightstand—Jennie's tiny baby self in her mother's arms, her cheeks plump and smiling, her mother's eyes alight with love. That photo never moved. Even during room redecorations or spring cleaning frenzies. Jennie never touched it. It just stayed.

And now, as tears slid down her cheeks, she reached for it without even thinking. Her fingers brushed the frame. She didn't lift it, just kept her palm against the glass like it would anchor her.

"I'm in love," she whispered.

Detective Kim blinked. For a moment, he was silent.

Then his mouth opened slightly, and a relieved laugh nearly escaped him. "That's it?" he said, chuckling faintly. "You scared me, I thought—wait..."

He looked down again, narrowing his eyes at the plushie, the streaks of tears on her pillow, the pain she wasn't saying. His fatherly instincts, those finely tuned over decades of dealing with criminals and con artists, sharpened.

"That's not all of it, is it?"

Jennie turned on her back slowly. Her eyes were red, her nose pink, her lips trembling. She looked like she was five again, like the girl who used to crawl into his bed after nightmares. But she was twenty-four now, and the look in her eyes was that of a woman in a storm.

"I'm in love," she said again, more clearly. "With someone who doesn't take anything seriously. Not even me."

Detective Kim leaned in a little. "Boy or girl?"

Jennie huffed a broken laugh. "Girl."

He only nodded, unfazed. "Do I know her?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't think so. And honestly... I don't even know if I know her."

That made his brow furrow.

"She's the kind of person who says one thing and means another," Jennie continued. "She's warm and kind, then distant and teasing. She makes you feel like you're special and then laughs like none of it matters. Like it's all a game."

She hugged her capybara tighter, pressing her cheek into it like it could guard her heart.

"I've spent the last week trying to understand her. One part of me wants to run away and never speak to her again. The other part... would do anything just to see her smile."

Detective Kim exhaled slowly. "Sounds like your heart is working overtime."

"She's confusing," Jennie murmured. "And I'm not."

He smiled faintly. "No. You never were."

Jennie rubbed her eyes, frustrated. "I organize my playlists by mood and time of day. My music sheets are color-coded. My feelings, they're—simple. Straightforward. I don't play games. But she—she's the kind of person who goes years without labels. She's chaos, and I—I don't know how to breathe when she's near, but I can't breathe without her either."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, gently, he said, "Do you think she knows what she's doing to you?"

Jennie thought about it. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I don't think she means to hurt me. I just don't think she knows how not to."

Silence hung between them. Outside, the city murmured with holiday joy, lights flickering across windows, laughter spilling into alleys. But inside this room, it was just a girl and her father. A girl and her feelings. A girl and her heartbreak.

"I wish Mom was here," Jennie whispered.

Detective Kim's heart clenched. He placed a hand on her head, brushing her hair back like he used to when she was small. "She'd probably tell you to march straight to that girl's door and tell her how you feel."

Jennie's lips quivered. "What if she doesn't feel the same?"

"Then you'll cry," he said gently. "And you'll get through it. Like you always do. But if she does... if there's even a chance..." He paused. "You've always been brave, Jennie."

She stared at the ceiling again, where her star lantern still glowed faintly, its soft light casting gentle shadows that reminded her of childhood promises and faraway comforts.

Maybe she didn't need answers tonight. But the fact that she had told someone—finally told her dad—lifted something off her chest. Even if it hurt. Even if it made her feel like bleeding.

"Thanks, Dad," she whispered.

He patted her head and stood up, but not before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Don't bottle it up, okay? I'm just a room away."

As he left, Jennie curled tighter into her blanket, her plushie pressed close. The capybara's stitched eyes stared back at her like it knew all her secrets. She smiled faintly, and for the first time that night, her tears slowed.

Love, she realized, wasn't supposed to be tidy. Maybe it could be as messy as unmarked sheet music or an unfinished melody.

And maybe... just maybe, Roseanne wasn't the only one confused.

~

The hallway felt quieter than it should have on a Friday evening, as if the building itself held its breath. Roseanne glanced once more at the address on her phone screen, a slight tremble in her fingertips as she tapped it off. This was the place. The same street. The same apartment building. The same air. Everything felt too familiar. Too close to the girl with bunny cheeks who had barged into her life uninvited and, ever since, refused to leave her thoughts.

She adjusted her coat, exhaled, and took the stairs slowly. Each step echoed faintly through the stairwell, and for a second she paused—half-expecting to hear laughter behind one of the doors. Maybe a soft voice humming a tune she hadn't realized was stuck in her head. But the corridor above was empty when she reached it, and the brass number on the apartment door gleamed faintly in the pale light.

Roseanne raised her hand and knocked—two measured taps. Then waited.

The door creaked open moments later, and a man stood before her. Mid-fifties, lean but strong, with a stern kind of kindness in his expression, the kind that came from years of reading between the lines, from carrying the weight of things most people would never know.

Before she could say a word, he offered a small, knowing smile.

"Miss Park," he said.

She blinked. "You know me?"

He gestured for her to come inside. "Please. I've seen your face often enough."

Roseanne hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. The scent of roasted coffee and something earthy greeted her first. The room wasn't sterile or stark like most offices. It was warm, worn, personal. A bookshelf flanked one wall, stacked unevenly with old files and novels. A coffee table with water rings told stories of late-night thinking. And behind the desk, a tall window let in the honeyed remnants of afternoon light.

Mr Kim moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew how to listen better than he spoke. He gestured toward the chair across from him, and Roseanne lowered herself into it, smoothing her coat across her knees.

"I assume you're here for more than autographs."

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You're right." She took a breath. "I need your help."

He folded his hands on the desk and waited.

"There's someone I met," she started. "Months ago. I don't know her name. I don't know anything about her except that she finished music school. She plays piano—keyboard too. Korean. Probably mid-twenties."

He didn't move, didn't blink. Just listened.

"She has this... presence," Roseanne continued, frowning slightly at how vague that sounded. "Short hair. Bunny cheeks. The kind of smile that lingers even after she's gone. And when she did go—" her voice dipped "—she took something with her."

Mr Kim narrowed his eyes just slightly, but said nothing.

"I tried to forget," Roseanne admitted. "I thought if I kept myself busy—parties, trips, anything—it would go away. But it didn't. She's... in my head. In my chest. And I need to know who she is, her name. I was told you could find anyone if given enough detail."

He leaned back, studying her with an unreadable expression. "You've come a long way for a name."

"I've come a long way because I made the mistake of letting someone walk away before I could understand why she mattered," Roseanne said. "I'm trying to fix that."

Silence stretched between them. The second hand on the nearby clock ticked on like a judge counting down the truth.

"You say she's Korean," he said at last.

"Yes."

He nodded once, slowly. "Did she ever mention where she lived?"

Roseanne hesitated. "Somewhere around here."

He shifted in his chair.

"Anything else?"

"She never told me her name. She never told me much of anything, actually. But she said she wasn't good at saying goodbye. She looked like it broke her too."

Mr Kim's expression was still calm, but something under it flickered. A subtle fracture.

"I see," he said softly. "What would you do with this name, if I gave it to you?"

"I don't know," Roseanne admitted. "I think I just want to know if I was real to her. If I wasn't just a passing phase."

He stood then, walking over to a tall cabinet in the corner of the room. His fingers hovered over the edge of the wood before turning back to face her.

"My daughter cried last night," he said suddenly. "Not the kind of cry that comes from a bad dream. The kind that empties you. That takes something out of your chest and doesn't give it back."

Roseanne blinked, uncertain. "Your daughter?"

He didn't answer. Not directly. He walked back toward the desk, his voice slower now, more deliberate.

"I warned her about the world. Told her how dangerous it can be to feel too deeply. She listens, mostly. But she also dreams. That's the part I couldn't protect her from."

Something cold settled in Roseanne's gut. She leaned forward. "Are you saying it's her?"

He didn't confirm it. Not in words.

But his silence screamed.

"She's brilliant," he said, sitting again. "She writes songs in the middle of the night and doesn't share them with anyone. She used to play piano until her fingers hurt. She'd sneak into concerts she couldn't afford just to listen. Never cared for fame. Never wanted the world to look at her the way it looks at you."

Roseanne's heart was thundering in her chest now.

"Jennie," he finally said. "Jennie Kim."

The name felt like the final note in a song she hadn't known she was writing. Her breath caught. Her fingers curled into her coat.

"Jennie..." she echoed.

Mr Kim studied her carefully. "And she is in love with you"

Meanwhile Jennie reached Irene's house. The sun had begun its slow descent by the time , The sky over Paris wore a soft golden hue, one that seemed too pretty for how her heart felt. She had tucked her hands into the sleeves of her cardigan, clutching them like some kind of armor against the ache still lingering in her chest. Her father's words rang in her ears—gentle, concerned, heavy with the weight of love and fear.

"You're too good for the world, kiddo," he had told her, ruffling her hair like he used to when she was younger, when she still believed that being kind was enough. "And I don't know how I'm supposed to protect you from it all."

Jennie had laughed it off at the time, but that ache in her throat didn't go away. Her mind hadn't stopped spinning since.

She needed a friend. A human anchor. A slap across the face or a warm drink—whichever came first. Someone to knock some sense into her heart and brain and soul, all of which had clearly gone haywire. And there was no one better for the job than Irene.

The apartment door creaked open even before Jennie could knock properly. Irene stood there in pajamas, a mud mask half-dried on her face, holding a half-eaten strawberry in one hand.

"Oh god," she said with a dramatic flair. "You've got that look."

Jennie blinked. "What look?"

"That look like the world just tilted sideways and you don't know if you want to cry or punch someone."

Jennie let out a breath—half sob, half laugh—and threw her arms around her friend without warning. Irene blinked, patting her back with the hand not holding the strawberry.

"Come in, drama queen," she muttered. "Let's fix your soul."

Inside, Irene's apartment was the same controlled chaos as always. Candles on the dining table. A pile of clean laundry forgotten on the couch. Classical music playing faintly in the background. Jennie kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bean bag near the window.

"Okay," Irene said, plopping down beside her and wiping the drying mask off with a tissue. "Who do I have to kill?"

"No one," Jennie mumbled. "Maybe myself."

"Don't be dramatic."

Jennie stared at her fingers. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being... ruined."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "This is about the same girl, isn't it?"

Jennie didn't answer.

"I knew it. The blondie who calls you....what animal was that again?"

"Her name's Roseanne," Jennie whispered.

"Oh." Irene leaned back. "So, she finally wrecked you, huh?"

"I let her go," Jennie said. "I thought it was right. I thought I was protecting her. She comes from a world that eats people like me for breakfast."

"People like you?" Irene scoffed. "What does that even mean?"

Jennie shook her head. "I mean I'm... no one. Just some girl with a keyboard. She's—she's champagne and yachts and cameras and a last name people care about."

"And you think that matters?" Irene asked. "You think heartbreak is classist?"

Jennie didn't know how to explain that it wasn't just about where Roseanne came from—it was about how much it hurt to want something you couldn't touch. Like staring at a star you knew would burn you if you got too close.

"She hugged me once," Jennie said, her voice breaking on the edges. "And I've been trying to get it out of my system since."

Irene didn't speak for a long moment.

"You need to talk to her," she finally said. "Or scream at her. Or throw your arms around her again. But you need to do something, Jennie. You can't just sit here and rot in heartbreak."

Jennie closed her eyes. "I think it's already too late."

Meanwhile, just two blocks away, Roseanne stood still at the edge of a decision she hadn't realized she'd be forced to make.

Mr Kim's words hung heavy in the air between them.

"She's brilliant," he had said. "She's soft. She's fierce. She hides her heart because she's terrified someone will mishandle it. And when you came into her life, she let it slip into your hands."

Roseanne said nothing, her spine rigid in the chair.

"I warned her," he continued. "Months ago. I saw the way she looked at you. Like you were her favorite part of the dream. And I told her—this world you live in, it's cruel. It doesn't care who gets crushed. And last night, when she cried like she used to as a little girl... I wasn't sure whether to hold her or hunt you down."

Roseanne blinked, the sharp breath she inhaled rattling in her chest.

"I didn't mean to hurt her."

"I believe you," Mr Kim said. "But that doesn't make a difference, does it? You still did."

"I didn't come here to play games," Roseanne snapped, a flicker of her usual fire returning. "I came here because I need to know. I've been going insane wondering if what I felt was real. If I was just another temporary fascination to her—"

"You weren't," he interrupted. "She doesn't let people that close unless she's all in. And she was."

Roseanne gripped the edge of her seat, trying to steady herself.

"I can't give you permission to see her," he said after a long pause. "Not as a father. Because I've seen how it tears her apart."

"I'm not here to ask for permission," Roseanne replied quietly. "I just needed her name. I needed to know."

He nodded solemnly. "And now that you do... I hope you do the right thing."

She stood then, the weight of the moment pressing against her shoulders. The walls of the office felt suddenly too narrow. She moved toward the door, pausing just before she stepped out.

"If I leave," she said without turning, "it's because I don't want to make things worse for her."

"Then leave," Mr Kim said, his voice low. "Before it becomes something none of us can undo."

And so, Roseanne stepped into the hallway again, the quiet echo of the closing door behind her sealing the name—Jennie Kim—into her chest like a secret too sacred to speak aloud.

Outside, the sky had dimmed to a dusky lavender, and the street felt different now. Heavier. Closer. Roseanne walked slowly down the steps, her feet uncertain, her mind a tangled mess of music and memories and unshed words.

And up above, behind one of the many windows glowing faintly in the dusk, Jennie sat curled in Irene's beanbag, fingers digging into her sleeves, wondering if Roseanne had already forgotten her.

They were only a few steps apart.

But in their hearts, a universe still stood between them.

~

The room was too quiet. The hum of the mini fridge, the ticking of the sleek wall clock, and the distant murmur of Paris traffic felt amplified—like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for Roseanne to decide whether she would stay or disappear again.

Her suitcase lay like a patient beast on the floor, halfway zipped, waiting for its final command.

Roseanne stood still for a long moment, her eyes trained on the phone she had just put down. The concierge had confirmed it. A flight back to Seoul. In an hour. A smooth exit. Clean, efficient, without mess or noise. She had done it before. She could do it again.

So why couldn't she move?

Her fingers brushed over the rim of the suitcase again, catching on the worn leather handle. This was routine. She should be throwing her clothes in by now. Tossing her toothbrush in a pouch, sweeping her passports and sunglasses into her bag. She should be on her way out the door, calling for the car. She should already be halfway to the airport, sunglasses on, avoiding eye contact with the city she'd seduced and abandoned like all the others.

But she wasn't.

Instead, she stared at the zipper. Just stared.

Because this time wasn't like the others.

This time, there was Jennie.

And now Jennie had a name, a life, a backstory—and a heart Roseanne wasn't sure she was worthy of. She'd always liked Jennie. That wasn't a secret. She liked her fire, her refusal to be impressed by flash and sparkle. Jennie had a steadiness to her, a grounded truth that Roseanne found herself circling like a moth to flame. She was refreshing in a world of glittering pretenders.

But now? Now Roseanne knew she was loved by her.

Not liked. Not admired. Loved.

And it made her feel exposed in ways she wasn't ready to unpack.

She'd always seen herself as the type of person who floated—drifted into lives, played her part, left behind a memory. She didn't do roots. She didn't do permanence. She certainly didn't do feelings that required her to stay still long enough to unpack them.

But now she felt caught—like someone had finally called her bluff.

Because Jennie was love.

The good kind. The safe kind.

And instead of feeling lucky, Roseanne felt... terrified.

She paced the room, bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Her heart was thudding, louder than the city outside. She hated this. She hated the heaviness, the pressure. She hated that Jennie had turned out to be the one person she didn't want to hurt—and the one person she was most capable of wounding.

Jennie had been brave. Maybe too brave. She had loved in silence, spoken through actions, and held it all inside until her father cracked open the dam. That part stung—knowing she hadn't heard it from Jennie's lips first. But Roseanne also understood. If their roles were reversed, would she have said anything? Probably not. She would've buried it deep under sarcasm and jokes and a casual brush of fingers. She would've stayed silent too.

Maybe that's why she hadn't noticed.

Or maybe she had, and she just didn't want to face what it meant.

She stopped by the window, arms crossed over her chest. Below, the street bustled with late afternoon movement. A couple kissed by the fountain. A child tugged on her mother's scarf, pointing at a bakery window. The world was going on, completely unaware of her meltdown in this overly expensive suite.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She turned sharply, heart in her throat.

It wasn't Jennie.

Just her assistant, confirming a schedule change back in Seoul.

She ignored it and flopped back onto the bed, hair spilling over the pillow, arms splayed out like she was waiting to be arrested by her own conscience. Her mind spiraled back to the conversation with Jennie's father, how his voice had grown quiet when he confirmed the identity of the girl Roseanne had described—the girl who haunted her thoughts.

"She's my daughter," he had said.

And just like that, Roseanne had lost the breath in her lungs.

All this time. The mystery girl, the bunny cheeks, the soft keyboard melodies she'd overheard at the bar, the girl with the untamed laugh and quietly stubborn eyes—it was Jennie. The same Jennie who had stormed into her life, wrapped in questions and warnings. The same Jennie who had made her question if maybe, just maybe, staying wasn't always a trap.

And now she was going to leave her behind like all the others?

She dragged a pillow over her face and screamed into it. A long, muffled sound of frustration.

When she sat up again, her heart was pounding with indecision.

It would be easier to go.

But the right thing?

That wasn't so clear anymore.

Because Jennie had seen the worst parts of her—and still loved her.

And Roseanne wasn't sure what scared her more: the thought of losing Jennie, or the thought of maybe... just maybe... she didn't want to.

She didn't think. Didn't stop. Didn't look twice at the street signs or the pedestrians she brushed past or the heels of her boots slamming against the sidewalk. Roseanne just ran.

She didn't book a cab, didn't wait for an Uber, didn't even glance at the line of parked Vespas she could've bribed someone to borrow. Her body just moved, like she was being pulled by an invisible thread straight from her ribs, straight toward the place she had once promised herself she wouldn't go back to—Kim's apartment.

The Paris air was brisk, crisp from the late afternoon chill, but it only burned in her lungs as she sprinted down streets she barely recognized, her coat flying behind her like a broken parachute. Her heart pounded in her ears, her legs screaming with each turn, each push forward. It was stupid. Wild. Ridiculous. Like something out of one of those overly sentimental dramas she claimed to hate. But she didn't care. Not now. Not when the only thing in her head, in her chest, was Jennie.

She reached the apartment building with her breath caught in her throat, knuckles red and raw from the wind. Without a second to catch her breath, she slammed her hand against the door.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again, harder each time.

Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks were flushed. She was breathless, desperate, and soaked in urgency. The sound echoed through the hallway until finally—finally—the door swung open.

Detective Kim stood there, dressed in a faded blue sweater and dark slacks, eyebrows drawn tight as he took in her winded, wild-eyed state. His frown deepened.

"I thought you were on your way to Korea," he said.

Roseanne shook her head, panting, chest rising and falling. "Didn't go," she gasped out.

The detective's gaze softened just slightly as he stepped back, allowing her inside, but Roseanne didn't move. She barely made it past the threshold, heart still racing in uneven thuds. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, willing her voice not to shake.

"Is she here?" she asked, eyes flickering past him into the empty apartment.

Detective Kim exhaled. "No," he said quietly. "She went to your hotel. Wanted to see you before you left."

Roseanne's mouth fell open in silent disbelief, like the air had been knocked out of her twice.

"She—she what?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. I tried to stop her, but she insisted," he added, his voice calm, but not without sympathy. "She thought... she thought she'd already lost you."

A curse fell from Roseanne's lips as she spun on her heel and bolted down the hallway again, ignoring the burning in her knees and the way her legs wobbled beneath her.

This time, she hailed a taxi, practically throwing herself into the backseat and spitting out the name of her hotel before the driver could even ask. Her hands trembled. Her reflection in the rearview mirror was a blur of panic—flushed cheeks, hair flying, eyes frantic.

The driver sped through the late afternoon traffic, but the ride still felt like eternity. Her knees bounced with every bump in the road, heart thudding hard and loud enough to hurt. Jennie had come to see her. She had come to say goodbye. And Roseanne had missed her.

She stormed into the lobby the second the taxi halted, pushing through the glass doors, ignoring the polite greetings from the staff as she reached the front desk.

"Did anyone—anyone come here looking for me?" she asked breathlessly. "A girl. Black coat. Probably annoyed-looking."

The concierge blinked at her, startled, then nodded. "Yes, miss. A young woman came asking for you. She left a few minutes ago. Didn't leave a message, I'm afraid."

Roseanne groaned and dropped her forehead onto the polished marble counter with a dull thunk, her breath fogging up the surface.

The universe was mocking her. She knew it. Playing games. Twisting her timing, pulling strings just to watch her suffer. If Jennie was a second earlier at the apartment, or if she hadn't wasted a minute debating whether to run—if she had taken a taxi, if she had said something sooner—

She rubbed her temples and cursed under her breath.

Think, Roseanne.

Where would Jennie go?

Where would Jennie go when she was heartbroken and tired and thinking everything had been for nothing?

She closed her eyes and retraced their memories—not the big, obvious ones, but the small, quiet ones. The kinds of places where Jennie had looked most like herself.

The Christmas market stalls, empty now in January but still hosting faint music and the smells of roasted nuts and warm cider. The corner by the Seine where the portrait artists painted with broken pastels and charcoal-stained fingers. The fountain behind the stone church, just beside the bronze horse statue where Jennie once asked if anyone ever felt enough. The cobblestone square where they bought crêpes and shared a cider while watching a mime pretend to be trapped in a box.

And then... the tree.

The oak tree by the Eiffel Tower. The one with the roots gnarled like tired knuckles and a view of the river that shimmered at dusk. The tree where they once had a picnic where Roseanne get to know her story. The tree where Jennie had fallen asleep beside her, and Roseanne didn't move for an hour because the sight of her felt like something sacred.

She whispered another curse under her breath and spun on her heel.

This time, she walked. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to feel every second of it. Her footsteps were quick, determined. Her legs still ached from earlier, but she didn't stop. The city passed around her in blurs of color—vendors and tourists and chatter and honking cars. But all she could think of was Jennie.

Please be there.

Please still be there.

The light was softening by the time she reached the Eiffel Tower, stretching long shadows across the grass. Tourists took photos, couples strolled, children pointed at the giant beams. Roseanne scanned the space beneath the trees, weaving through the crowd until she reached the hill near the edge of the lawn.

And there.

Just past the base of the oak, nearly hidden by the trunk, she saw her.

Jennie.

The same black coat draped over her narrow shoulders. Her hair tied up in a lazy bun, a few strands loose and curled near her cheek. She sat with her back against the tree, arms around her knees, chin tucked low. The Eiffel Tower glowed above them in the distance, but the light in Jennie's face was dull, like the sun had already set for her.

Roseanne took a step closer.

Then another.

She stopped just a few feet away, staring.

Jennie didn't notice her right away.

She looked tired. Exhausted. The kind of tired that wasn't about sleep, but about hope. Tear streaks marked her cheeks, now dried and faint, but still visible. Her eyes weren't crying anymore—they were just empty.

And Roseanne realized, with a hollow ache, that this wasn't just heartbreak.

This was the look of someone who had stopped believing.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn't speak.

Not yet.

She just stood there, staring at the girl who had always been more than just bunny cheeks and stubborn opinions. The girl who had loved her in silence and waited longer than anyone else would have.

And Roseanne finally knew—

She couldn't run anymore.

Not from this. Not from her.

Roseanne took another step forward, her boots crunching gently against the grass, and then, without any ceremony or warning, her knees gave out beneath her.

She sank.

Partly because her body had reached its limit—she had been running around Paris like a woman possessed since the afternoon—but mostly because there was something about Jennie's presence, sitting beneath that tree, still and silent and heartbreakingly there, that shattered the last bit of armor Roseanne had held onto. The grass was cool beneath her knees, damp and uneven, but she welcomed it. It grounded her in the moment, in the nearness of the girl she thought she'd never see again.

Jennie looked up.

Slowly. Like she'd heard a whisper before the storm.

Their eyes met, and Roseanne's breath hitched.

There was no surprise in Jennie's face. No dramatic gasp, no disbelief. Just a quiet, exhausted recognition. And in that expression—framed by the dimming sky and the shimmer of Eiffel Tower lights—there was something deeper, rawer, more terrifying than any tear.

A silent plea.

A message clear in her tired eyes: If this is real... if you're really here... don't let it fade. Don't run again. Don't undo this with silence.

Roseanne's chest caved. she curled. Her forehead pressed into palm of her hands that rested on the grass beside Jennie's hip, her body folding in on itself like prayer, or confession. Her fingers curled into the earth as her voice finally cracked open.

"I'm sorry."

It came out hoarse. Barely a breath.

And then again, stronger this time.

"I'm so sorry, Jennie."

She wasn't crying. Not yet. But her voice trembled with the weight of everything she hadn't said in the days, weeks, months that led to this.

"I didn't mean to leave," she whispered, eyes shut against the scent of grass and fading perfume. "I was scared. Not of you—God, not of you. But of what this means. Of what I might lose. Of... of how much you matter."

The words spilled out of her like a broken dam. "I always run. That's my thing, right? When something gets complicated, I pack a bag, hop a flight, disappear until it stops hurting. And you—you—you came out of nowhere and just... cracked me open."

Jennie didn't speak.

Not yet.

And so Roseanne went on, her voice laced with the kind of vulnerability she'd never dared share with anyone. "You saw through all my crap. All of it. The parties, the jokes, the 'I-don't-care' act. You called me out, and you stayed. No one's ever done that before. No one's ever wanted to."

Her fingers gripped the hem of Jennie's coat. "You said you loved me. You didn't say it, but you did. Your father did. I should've heard it from you, but I didn't need to. I felt it."

She lifted her head slowly, her cheeks streaked with tears now, and met Jennie's gaze. "I didn't come back because I felt guilty. Or because I needed to say goodbye properly. I came back because the idea of leaving and never seeing you again—of you thinking I didn't care—terrified me."

Jennie's breath caught, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes flickered, just slightly, and that's when Roseanne saw it—the trembling of a wall about to collapse.

"I don't know if I deserve you," Roseanne continued, voice cracking. "I don't know if I can be the person who doesn't run, who stays, who learns to be still. But I want to try. Not because you want me to. But because I want you."

Her voice faltered.

"I want you, Jennie. In my life. However you'll have me."

For a few moments, there was only silence between them. The murmur of Paris in the background—the distant sound of street musicians, soft laughter, the tower lights humming above them like stars suspended in steel.

Jennie looked at her. Long and quiet. Like she was seeing through Roseanne's skin and into every fault line inside her. She didn't speak. Not right away. She just listened, like she always did, letting Roseanne unravel without rushing to stitch her back up.

And then, finally, she spoke. Soft. Steady. A little hoarse.

"You think I don't know you run?" she said.

Roseanne blinked, startled by the calm certainty in her voice.

Jennie turned her head slightly, meeting her eyes. "You've been running since the day I met you. Running from people. From the idea of being known. From yourself."

Roseanne swallowed hard.

Jennie gave a small, humorless laugh. "You think I didn't notice how you flinch when someone stays too long? How you change cities like other people change outfits? I knew. I know. And I still—"

Her voice broke for a moment, then steadied. "I still let myself fall."

Roseanne's face crumpled again.

Jennie leaned back against the tree trunk, gazing up at the sky. "I told myself I wouldn't tell you. That I'd keep it quiet. Let it stay one-sided. Because I thought... if I said it out loud, you'd run."

"I almost did," Roseanne admitted, her voice barely audible.

"But you came back," Jennie whispered.

Roseanne nodded, eyes swimming.

Jennie glanced down at her, eyes unreadable. "Why now?"

Roseanne hesitated. Then said, "Because for the first time, I realized I'm not scared of being in love with you. I'm scared of not having you at all."

Silence stretched again.

Roseanne's hands found Jennie's, fingers shaking as she reached out.

"I don't want to lose you," she said. "Not as a friend. Not as anything. I don't care what this becomes. I just... I want you in my life. Even if it's messy. Even if I screw up."

Jennie looked at their joined hands. Then at Roseanne. Her expression softened.

"You already did screw up," she murmured.

"I know."

"And it is messy."

"I figured."

Jennie exhaled. Then, slowly, she shifted, sliding her hand from Roseanne's to cup her cheek.

And then—

She leaned forward, brushing her forehead gently against Roseanne's.

A quiet moment. No kiss. No declaration.

Just breath shared between two people who had run in circles around each other for too long.

"You're lucky I love drama," Jennie whispered.

The echo of the city blurred around them, a quiet lull of distant sounds drifting through the air like background noise to a scene unfolding too intimately to be interrupted. The weight of their words still hung between them like dew suspended on a spider's web—delicate, glinting, at risk of vanishing with the slightest wrong move.

But then came the sharp crack of a slap.

It wasn't thunderous, but it was loud enough to echo slightly beneath the tree. Roseanne's face jerked to the side, her cheek stinging in the cold air.

She blinked, stunned for a moment—not out of shock, but more out of reality catching up with her. The red-hot bloom on her cheek matched the warmth rising in her throat. And then she laughed.

Chuckled, really. A breathy, slightly bitter sound that spoke of guilt, remorse, and a bit of surprise.

"Okay," she breathed, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, her eyes still watery. "I deserved that."

Jennie didn't say a word.

The second slap came faster than the first.

This one knocked Roseanne back—not physically, but emotionally, as if the weight of Jennie's pain had found its own outlet in her palm. Roseanne didn't laugh this time. She gasped, wide-eyed, and stared at the girl over her with that familiar pout, lips trembling with everything she hadn't said.

"Okay, ow," Roseanne winced, raising both hands as if in surrender, eyes watering now for entirely different reasons. "Jennie, you can't just—"

Before she could finish, she shuffled closer and dropped her head forward, burying her face into Jennie's stomach. The wool of her coat was soft beneath her cheek, familiar now, like every time she'd leaned against her in a café booth or at a park bench. She breathed in the scent—lavender and cold air, with the faintest trace of vanilla.

"Is this your way of saying you love me?" Roseanne mumbled into her, voice muffled by fabric and shame. "Because if it is... it's very aggressive."

Jennie looked down at the girl curled into her waist, arms loosely wrapped around her like a child caught red-handed and looking for a hug instead of punishment.

"I do love you," Jennie said softly.

Roseanne stilled.

"But that slap was for being a complete asshole," Jennie continued, a little sharper now. "And the second one was for being a coward. And a jerk. And breaking my heart."

Roseanne exhaled into her coat. "Okay. Yeah. Fair."

Jennie stared down at her for a moment longer before her hands slowly reached into Roseanne's hair, gently combing through the messy blonde strands. It was the kind of tender gesture that didn't match the previous violence, but somehow made all the emotional chaos settle into something bearable.

Roseanne turned her face into Jennie's stomach a little more, her voice growing smaller.

"I thought I could outrun it. The feelings, the fear. That I could just leave Paris, hop a flight, and pretend like none of this was real."

"But you didn't," Jennie said.

Roseanne nodded against her. "Because I couldn't. I tried. I almost did."

Jennie didn't speak.

"And when I found you here, under this tree—our stupid tree with the ants and wine spills and crumpled receipts—I swear, Jennie, something inside me stopped running."

Jennie brushed her fingers down the back of Roseanne's neck. "You looked like shit."

Roseanne laughed, muffled. "Thanks."

"You smell like sweat and panic."

"I ran, okay? No taxis this time. Only drama and guilt-powered legs."

Jennie sighed, then push her to sit straight, then pulling Roseanne into her arms. It wasn't romantic—not immediately. It was raw, a kind of emotional triage. She held her because Roseanne was unraveling and it was the only thing she knew to do. She held her because despite everything, her heart still beat a little faster when she touched her.

Roseanne let herself be held, like she'd never allowed anyone to hold her before. No smug remarks. No one-liners.

Just quiet.

Eventually, she pulled back, but her hands stayed tangled in Jennie's.

"Are we... okay?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jennie looked at her.

And then, slowly, she nodded.

"We are."

Roseanne smiled, but it was small. Not her usual beam. It was something softer, like the first flicker of morning light through thick curtains.

They sat in silence for a while, side by side, their backs against the oak tree. The Eiffel Tower lit up in the background as if cued for the closing scene. Paris stretched around them, but for once, neither felt the weight of the city.

"I'm not promising I won't mess up again," Roseanne said suddenly.

Jennie rolled her eyes. "Wow, comforting."

"I'm serious," Roseanne chuckled, nudging her with her shoulder. "I mess up. I'm complicated. I'm not built for... constancy. But with you—I want to try. Like really try. Not just stay in one place. Stay with one person."

Jennie turned to her, brows raised.

Roseanne hesitated, then added, "Well, you in particular."

Jennie cracked a smile, finally.

"You better," she said, brushing Roseanne's hand with her thumb. "Because I'm not gonna sit under more trees crying over you if you bolt again."

Roseanne grinned. "You'll slap me again?"

Jennie nodded firmly. "Harder."

Roseanne laughed, full now, head tilted back as she breathed in the night air. "God, I understand why I fell in love with you"

They stayed there for a long time—until the wind got colder and the crowds thinned and it felt like Paris belonged just to them for a night. When they finally stood, Jennie looped her arm through Roseanne's, and they walked back slowly, no rush, no destination.

Roseanne didn't run this time.

She didn't want to.

She had found her constant.

And even if the world moved on, even if tomorrow was full of chaos and doubt and morning-after uncertainty—tonight, under an old oak tree by the Eiffel Tower, in the arms of a girl who slapped her twice and still loved her—Roseanne stayed.

And that made all the difference.

-Fin-

[Author's note]

Had this story in my draft since 2023

Anyways, Lovely people

Hope you enjoyed it

-Sua