The restaurant was just fancy enough to feel like you should whisper, but not fancy enough to be truly intimidating. It had flickering candles, uncomfortable chairs, and a waiter who judged your soul every time you asked for tap water.
Noa and Ren arrived five minutes late, mostly because Ren had changed shirts three times and almost walked out wearing a scarf that made him look like a retired magician.
"Are we underdressed or perfectly understated?" he asked, smoothing his collar as they entered.
Noa glanced around. "Judging by that guy's monocle? We're under everything."
They were seated at a long table with other production people from the project they were shadowing. Producers, an overly charming actor with too much cologne, and one translator who looked like he hadn't slept since the plane landed.
And then came the wine.
It was the cheap kind of red that made your cheeks hot and your honesty hotter.
One glass.
Two glasses.
Three.
By the fourth, Ren was laughing too loud and complimenting the waiter's eyebrows.
Noa tried to kick him under the table. Missed. Kicked the producer instead.
She smiled apologetically while Ren leaned over and whispered, "French eyebrows have confidence."
"Ren," she hissed. "Shut up."
"I'm appreciating culture."
"You're appreciating fermented grapes."
"Tomato, tomahto."
—
By dessert, Ren was deep into a monologue about how the Eiffel Tower was "really just a tall metal breakup waiting to happen."
Noa stole his glass.
The translator looked on in horror.
"I think we should leave," she said quietly.
"But there's mousse," Ren pouted.
"There's also dignity. Let's try to save what's left."
She stood and pulled him up by the arm.
Ren waved at the table. "Bye, art friends! I love you all equally!"
They left before anyone could stop them. Or film it.
—
The night air sobered them slightly. Only slightly.
Paris glittered in that smug, postcard kind of way. Ren stumbled slightly on the curb, grabbing Noa's arm for balance.
"Whoa," he said. "That wine was violent."
"You drank it like juice."
"Grape juice with ambition."
They wandered the empty street in comfortable silence. Ren kept humming something vaguely resembling *La Vie en Rose*, except off-key and probably illegal.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, "You looked really beautiful tonight."
Noa froze mid-step.
"What?"
"I mean… you always look nice. But tonight you looked like… someone you don't want to stop looking at."
She stared at him.
"I'm drunk," he added quickly.
"I noticed."
"But that doesn't make it less true."
Noa looked away, heart pounding like a badly mixed drum track.
"You're going to forget saying that."
"Probably," Ren agreed. "But you won't."
And just like that, her stomach flipped.
Annoyingly.
—
They reached their apartment building. Noa unlocked the door while Ren leaned against the wall, grinning like a five-year-old who just told a good fart joke.
She held the door open. "Come on, wine boy."
Ren stepped inside, wobbling only slightly.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused.
"You know," he said, voice suddenly soft, "I think I might be a little in love with you."
Noa's heart stopped. Completely.
But Ren? He was already climbing the stairs, mumbling something about "soft pillows and emotional safety."
Noa stood frozen by the door.
Did he just—?
Was that real?
Was it the wine?
Or was it one of those truths people only say when their filter's asleep?
She slowly followed him up, her mind racing faster than her feet.
—
The next morning, Ren woke up on the couch with a blanket halfway off and a note taped to his forehead that read:
**"Drink this water. Apologize for being a poet. — N."**
He groaned, sat up, and looked around the room.
Noa was in the kitchen, back turned, hair tied up, humming to herself.
She didn't mention anything from the night before.
Neither did he.
But when their eyes met across the kitchen, there was a beat—a silent, awkward, lingering beat—where everything unspoken hung in the air like steam.
And maybe that was enough for now.
No kiss.
No apology.
Just two people pretending they hadn't started to slip into something deeper.
Pretending.
For now.