They should've known the weather app lied.
Paris that morning had been all blue skies and pigeons acting suspiciously romantic.
But by 3PM, the clouds over Montmartre were grumbling like someone forgot to feed them.
"Did you bring an umbrella?" Noa asked, peeking at the grey sky.
Ren looked confident. "No. But I brought optimism."
Thirty minutes later, they were soaked.
They stood under the awning of a closed souvenir shop, dripping rainwater and mutual disappointment.
"Remind me," Noa said, wringing out her scarf, "why we decided to *walk* up the hill?"
"Because it's Paris. You don't Uber in Paris."
"You also don't *drown* in Paris, but here we are."
Ren pulled something from his backpack with dramatic flair.
It was… a collapsible umbrella.
Tiny. Bent. Patterned with neon cats.
Noa blinked. "That's your emergency umbrella?"
"It was on sale."
"It looks like it belonged to a drunk kindergarten teacher."
"Then it matches our vibe."
—
They walked up the Montmartre steps like two sardines trying to escape a faucet.
The umbrella covered neither of them fully, forcing them shoulder to shoulder.
Very close.
Uncomfortably so.
At one point, Noa's hand brushed his.
Then didn't move.
Then moved again.
Then pretended it never happened.
"Paris is stupid," she muttered.
Ren smirked. "Romance yet?"
"Only if we die here."
—
They finally reached the top of the hill.
The view was cinematic.
Eiffel Tower in the distance. Rain slanting like it wanted to be art. Lovers posing dramatically under shared coats.
Noa watched them with suspicion. "Do you think they're real or just hired by the tourism board?"
Ren replied, "No one that dry is real."
They stood there, breathing in Paris from above.
For once, no jokes.
Just the sound of wet cobblestones and city traffic humming below.
Then Ren said, "Want to see the Eiffel Tower up close?"
Noa blinked. "Now?"
"Yeah. I mean… we're here. We've suffered. Might as well go full cliché."
She hesitated.
Then shrugged. "Fine. But if there's a proposal nearby, I'm jumping off."
—
Twenty minutes and one overpriced taxi later, they stood at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.
Rain still drizzling.
Tourists still posing.
Vendors still whispering *"Champagne? Keychain? Weed?"*
Ren tilted his head up. "It's bigger than I imagined."
"That's what she said."
He snorted.
They bought two soggy tickets and went up in the cramped elevator with six strangers and a crying baby.
Inside, it smelled like steel, wet shoes, and international frustration.
Noa whispered, "Still not romantic."
Ren replied, "Maybe if someone played a violin…"
And then, right on cue, a man with a Bluetooth speaker started playing a dramatic orchestral cover of *Shape of You*.
Noa burst out laughing.
"I take it back. This is perfect."
—
At the top, the rain had stopped.
Sort of.
Clouds clung around the iron frame like stage fog.
Paris looked like it had been watercolored by someone slightly drunk.
Noa leaned on the railing.
"I always thought I'd feel something here," she said.
"You don't?"
"I feel cold. And kinda stupid."
Ren nodded. "Same."
They stood in silence for a minute.
Then Noa added, "Maybe we're just not Eiffel Tower people."
"Maybe we're baguette-in-the-metro people."
"Or wrong-train people."
"Or 'accidentally sharing a hotel bed again' people."
She smiled.
Not big.
But honest.
Then said, "So… no fireworks? No romantic declarations?"
He leaned closer, eyes soft. "Do you want one?"
Noa looked out at the city.
Then back at him.
"Nah. I just want someone who doesn't make fun of me for crying at cheese commercials."
"Too late."
They laughed.
And for a second—just a second—the Eiffel Tower didn't feel like a cliché.
It just felt like the place where they finally said nothing, and it meant something.
—
As they descended, Ren asked, "What do you want to do next?"
Noa shrugged. "Anything but a boat cruise."
"Agreed."
Pause.
Then: "But we can still kiss under the Eiffel Tower if you want?"
Noa blinked. "Was that a joke or a suggestion?"
He grinned. "Fifty-fifty."
She rolled her eyes. "Let's save that for when we're dry and not smelling like wet baguette."
"Fair."
They walked away from the tower, shoes squeaking.
No kiss.
No music swell.
Just two idiots in a city that kept trying to be romantic, and kept failing—
—but somehow, that made it even better.