All they wanted were crêpes.
One lazy Paris afternoon. One cute food stand near the river. No expectations. No drama.
Just soft batter, chocolate drizzle, and maybe a little whipped cream.
Ren was already at the counter, debating between banana or strawberry. Noa leaned against the lamppost, watching the Seine and pretending she wasn't already picturing him offering her a bite like some soft K-drama scene.
He turned to her. "Do we commit to Nutella?"
"You mean emotionally or financially?"
"I mean spiritually."
Before she could answer, a shriek pierced the air.
A pigeon.
A monstrous, feathered demon of the sky dive-bombed their crêpe cart.
The vendor screamed. The strawberries went flying. The whipped cream hit Ren's shirt like an explosion of dairy violence.
Noa burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Paris really *hates* us."
Ren wiped cream from his chest. "It's revenge for mocking the Eiffel Tower."
Another crash. Someone knocked over a chair. A tourist screamed in German. It was absolute chaos.
And somehow, that's when it happened.
Noa turned, still laughing, and said—without meaning to—
"I think I'm in love with you."
Silence.
She froze.
Ren froze.
Even the pigeon seemed to pause in midair, like the universe wanted to give them a second to panic.
Noa's face went pale. Then red. Then somewhere in between.
"I—didn't—mean to say that," she said quickly.
Ren blinked. "Are you sure?"
"No—I mean yes—I mean—ughhhhh." She covered her face.
He didn't say anything.
The silence stretched.
People still screamed about birds and ruined desserts, but all Noa could hear was her own heartbeat smashing against her ribs.
Then Ren said, softly, "I love you too."
She lowered her hands. Slowly.
"You do?"
"Yeah."
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Since Tokyo. Or Korea. Or maybe since you threatened that flight attendant in Osaka."
She stared at him.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because we're idiots. And I thought we were on the same page about pretending not to notice."
Noa laughed—nervously, tearfully. "God, we're really bad at this."
"Yeah," he said. "But at least we're bad together."
A crêpe vendor emerged from behind the stand, covered in flour, and handed them a sad, mashed banana-Nutella hybrid on a paper plate.
"It's the last one," he said solemnly.
They took it.
Split it.
Ate in silence, standing beside each other on the edge of the river, sticky-fingered and emotionally wrecked.
Halfway through, Ren looked at her and said, "You realize this is the worst possible way to start a real relationship."
"Because of the pigeon?"
"No. Because we're in Paris. It's too romantic. If we survive this, we can survive anything."
She nodded.
Then leaned her head against his shoulder.
"I'm still scared," she whispered.
"So am I."
Another pause.
Then he added, "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
And with that, she smiled.
Not the sarcastic kind.
Not the tired, I-can't-believe-you-did-that kind.
Just real.
Just hers.
—
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But they didn't have to.
Paris would've ruined it with a trumpet-playing mime anyway.