Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ryo is a hard-working but emotionally distant salaryman. He’s stuck in the typical grind of toxic Japanese work culture: long hours, unspoken rules, silent suffering.

His boss pulls him aside to reward him for his "loyalty and dedication" with an overseas assignment in France.

Ryo is skeptical, but doesn’t refuse. Maybe a break from the usual routine will be good.

“フランス?” (France?) he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t know the language. Hasn’t left Japan in years. But he bows. “はい、 かしこまりました.” (Yes, I understand.)

Ryo doesn’t remember the last time he slept properly.

The fluorescent lights of the Tokyo office still burn behind his eyes, even though it’s already past midnight and he’s boarding a flight to Paris. Business class, sure. A step up. But comfort doesn’t mean much when his nerves are strung so tightly he could snap in half.

He doesn’t look at his coworker as they shuffle down the narrow aisle. The man is from another division, technically his superior. They haven’t spoken beyond clipped greetings. Not uncommon. In Japan, it’s safer to remain formal, avoid stepping over invisible lines. Relationships are built with time, through implication, not conversation.

So they walk in silence, briefcases in hand, each carrying their own fatigue like a second suit.

They’re almost at their row when it happens.

Ryo’s shoulder clips the man ahead of him—tall, broad, immaculately dressed in a charcoal coat that probably costs more than Ryo’s monthly rent. The man turns. Slowly.

For a second, their eyes meet.

Piercing hazel. Cold. Evaluating.

Ryo tenses instinctively, but the man says nothing. Just raises one sharp brow, as if unimpressed by the collision, and turns back around without a word.

Ryo exhales through his nose, annoyed.
“ちっ。マナーがない,” (Tch. No manners) he mutters under his breath in Japanese.

He doesn’t realize the French man heard him.

The flight is fourteen hours of silence.

Ryo doesn’t speak to his coworker. He barely touches the in-flight meal. He tries to work—laptop perched on the flimsy tray table, documents open in front of him—but the words blur. The plane hums beneath them, steady and endless, like a lullaby stretched too thin.

His body aches from the stiffness of a life lived at a desk. His eyes feel dry. His ears pop when they pass over Siberia.

When the turbulence hits somewhere over Central Europe, his coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim. He curses softly under his breath, trying to steady it.

A napkin appears in front of him.

Just a hand—long fingers, clean-cut nails—offering it without turning.

Ryo blinks, confused. Takes it. Doesn’t say thank you. He’s too thrown off to speak.

Who was that?

But the moment passes. The hand disappears. The seat in front remains still.

Customs is a blur. Ryo doesn’t know what he’s supposed to declare. His coworker handles most of it with the French-speaking liaison who meets them at the gate. Ryo just follows.

He expected jet lag. What he didn’t expect was the overwhelming feeling of being misplaced—like a puzzle piece shoved into the wrong box.

Outside, the sky is dull with early morning gray. The ride to the French branch of their company is silent. He watches foreign architecture blur past the window, trying to pick up on the rhythm of this new place. It doesn’t come easily.

The building is sleek. Chrome and glass. Western.

Inside, it’s colder than expected.

His coworker is pulled aside immediately. Someone from Human Resources, maybe. No one looks at Ryo. No one offers him a chair. He stands in the lobby for a few awkward minutes, surrounded by white walls, polished tile, and French voices he can’t understand.

He adjusts the collar of his coat. Breathes in. Keeps still.

Then a voice cuts through the low murmur of conversation.

“Fabron is arriving now.”

People straighten up. Movement. A small cluster gathers near the elevator.

Ryo doesn’t move. Until—

He sees him.

The man from the plane.

Charcoal coat replaced by a sharply tailored suit. Gold cufflinks. A watch that gleams like it was made to catch attention. His stride is confident, effortless. People bow slightly as he passes. Someone even hands him a file mid-step.

Ryo’s stomach twists.

No way.

No fucking way.

He tries to turn away before he’s noticed, but it’s too late.

The man looks directly at him.

Hazel eyes. Recognizing.

A faint smirk.

“We meet again,” the man says—this time in English, voice smooth and low. “I hope your flight was pleasant, monsieur.”

Ryo stiffens.
He knows. He remembers.

“...You’re with the company?” he manages, unsure whether to speak Japanese or English or jump out the window.

The man’s smile curves, amused.

“I run the company.”

Ryo blinks once.

Twice.

The words echo in his skull like a dropped stone in a deep, still lake.

He wants to scream.

Instead, he bows. Shallow. Controlled. The kind of bow you give when you’re not sure if you’re about to get fired.

“承知しました,” (Understood) he says stiffly in Japanese, hoping the formal tone will cover the panic crawling up his spine like fire ants.

Vincent Fabron tilts his head, gaze lingering.
He says nothing—just lets Ryo stew in the silence. It’s like he enjoys watching him squirm.

Sadist , Ryo thinks. All of France is probably like this.

“I’ll… report to the office now,” Ryo mutters in English, low and fast, gesturing vaguely at the hallway his coworker was led down.

Vincent doesn't stop him.

But he does say, “I look forward to working with you.”

There’s something smug in the way he says it.

Ryo walks away with his ears burning.

He’s not supposed to be here. Not in this room. Not in this meeting.

He’s just a systems analyst—mid-level, replaceable. This is an inter-branch strategy meeting between executives and senior managers.

And yet, here he is.

Someone must’ve pulled strings.

Or maybe it was an accident.

Or maybe… it was him.

Vincent walks in late, of course. Like he owns the air in the room.

Ryo doesn't look up. He takes notes. Pretends to care about quarterly exports. Prays he’ll be forgotten in the sea of suits.

But then—

“Monsieur Kiritani,” Vincent says, in perfect Japanese.

Every head turns.

Ryo looks up, eyes wide.

“I hope your seat is comfortable,” Vincent adds with a thin smile, before slipping into fluent French as he addresses the rest of the room.

Ryo stares at him.
How the hell does he know his name? And why the fuck did he use it in front of everyone?

He scribbles harder in his notebook just to avoid reacting.

Later, during a break, Ryo escapes to the hallway. Cold water. Deep breaths. Maybe a vending machine.

He doesn’t get far.

A voice slides up behind him.

“Do you always mutter under your breath on planes?”

Ryo nearly chokes on air. He turns.

Vincent leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking far too relaxed for a man in power. His jacket is unbuttoned. His tie loosened slightly. It’s criminal, honestly.

“I didn’t say anything important,” Ryo lies, flat.

“Mm. You said I had no manners,” Vincent replies, lips twitching.

“…You heard that?”

“Of course. I was right in front of you.”

Ryo wants the floor to open and swallow him.

He adjusts his blazer instead. “Sorry. It was a long flight.”

“I’m not offended,” Vincent says lightly. “I’ve been told worse.”

A pause.

Then, softly:

“But you should be more careful with that mouth of yours, monsieur.”

Ryo doesn’t know what to say to that. Or where to look.

He clears his throat. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll return to the meeting.”

Vincent hums. “By all means.”

But as Ryo walks away, he hears him add under his breath:

“I’ll be watching you, Ryo.”

Chapter Text

By the time the meeting ends, it’s past midnight.

The offices are dim, fluorescent lights flickering like they’re as tired as everyone still breathing in them. The streets of Montreuil are quieter than he expected for a commune in Paris. Even the wind feels restrained—cool, but not comforting.

Ryo Kiritani doesn’t speak a word to his coworker as they leave the building. The man doesn’t expect him to.

They part ways at the apartment complex, nothing more than a stiff nod between them.

Ryo’s unit is on the fourth floor. Temporary corporate housing. Clean, modern, impersonal. The walls are white. The bed is made. The air smells like lemon disinfectant and stale heating.

He doesn’t bother turning on the lights.

He sets his bag down, removes his blazer, loosens his tie with numb fingers.

He’s too tired to think, but his thoughts race anyway.

The shower runs hot—scalding—but he doesn’t flinch. Just stands under the stream, letting it burn the exhaustion out of his muscles, or at least try.

Water beads down his neck, over his chest, and all he can do is close his eyes and see him.

That smirk.

That voice.

That goddamn line:

“You should be more careful with that mouth of yours, monsieur.”

Ryo curses under his breath, scrubbing his face with both hands like he can wash Fabron’s memory off his skin.

But he can’t.

It’s been hours since they spoke, and still— still —he feels like he’s being watched.

Not by security cameras or city ghosts.

By him.

Vincent Fabron.

The man with the arrogance of someone who always wins.

The man who caught Ryo off-guard twice in one day.

The man who looked at him like he was interesting.

That was the worst part.

Ryo doesn’t know what the hell that look meant. And he hates not knowing.

He hates feeling like a fish out of water even more. Being in a foreign country, having to get accustomed to the norms and language barriers feel disorienting and quite frankly, homesick.

By the time he steps out of the shower, he’s dizzy with steam and overthinking. He stares at his reflection in the mirror—eyes dark, jaw tight, water clinging to his lashes like tears.

He dries off. Dresses in a plain tee and boxers. Collapses into bed.

The sheets are cold, and the silence of the room swells around him.

He’s too tired to keep thinking, and yet—

I’ll be watching you, Ryo.

It wasn’t a threat.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a promise.

And it was like he had met this man before. He just couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt a sense of familiarity when meeting his new boss. Weird.

Ryo rolls over and stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“Fucking French bastard,” he mutters to no one, before sleep finally drags him under.

In Japanese culture, to show respect to people with more seniority or authority, including your boss—-is crucial to comprehend and honor these hierarchical dynamics since it's a firmly rooted cultural value.

But, heck, Fabron wasn’t his boss. Sure, he may hold a high position in this company, but at the end of the day—he was employed in Japan . He is currently in the French branch of the company. He’s in France . This was merely a side-quest of his.

…

The next morning hits hard.

Ryo wakes with a start, the foreign quiet of Montreuil pressing down on his chest like a weighted blanket. There’s no blaring Tokyo traffic. No neighbors shouting on their phones through paper-thin walls. Just... stillness.

He exhales slowly, rubbing his face.

He didn’t sleep well. He never does in new places.

And—France is cold.
What the hell. He didn’t expect spring to feel like this. His breath fogs up the window a little as he stands by it, pulling on his jacket and scarf with gritted teeth.

Outside, the city is slowly waking up. Cars roll by. A few pedestrians pass. And on the corner, just down the street from the apartment, something catches his eye.

A small café. Clean black signage. Window panes slightly fogged with heat from inside. The warm golden glow of indoor lighting. Fresh pastries lined behind glass.

His stomach growls.

He didn’t eat dinner last night.

By the time he gets there, his ears are freezing, and his fingers feel stiff. The moment he steps inside, he’s hit with warm air, fresh bread, butter, and coffee—and it nearly brings him to his knees.

The place is beautiful in a soft, effortless way. Wooden counters. Minimalist decor. A chalkboard menu. A few small tables by the window. A couple seated in the corner, murmuring in low French.

Ryo walks up to the counter, eyes catching on the flaky golden croissants and glossy chocolate tarts.

His mouth waters.

He tries to act cool.

Clears his throat.

“I, uh… espresso,” he says slowly. Then gestures. “And... croissant. One.”

The waitress behind the counter blinks at him. “Pardon?”

Ryo stiffens.

“I want... this,” he says again, pointing. “Espresso. Croissant.”

The woman stares. “Vous voulez un croissant... et un café?” (You want a croissant... and a coffee?)

“Espresso,” Ryo says, nodding like that helps.

She squints. The judgment in her eyes could set him on fire.

He spends another full minute fumbling—half-English, half-gesture, a bit of Japanese under his breath—until he finally gives up and just points at the damn menu.

The waitress sighs. Nods. Writes it down.

He steps aside, cheeks hot. And not from the cold.

Jesus. It’s like being fourteen again. But somehow worse.

He barely has time to breathe in the scent of butter and coffee before—

“Didn’t take you for a morning person.”

Ryo freezes.

That voice. That voice.

Low. Smooth. A little smug.

He turns his head, stiff and slow, and of course it’s him.

Vincent Fabron.

Hair slightly tousled. Long black coat. Black turtleneck. No tie today. Hands in his pockets. That same unbearable expression on his face like he’s just watching something mildly entertaining.

Like he expected to run into Ryo here.

Ryo blinks. Once. Twice.
“…Are you following me?” he blurts, before he can stop himself.

Fabron raises an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Kiritani. I live nearby.”

“Right,” Ryo mutters. “Of course you do.”

Fabron steps forward, nods politely at the waitress, and says a stream of perfect French. She brightens, smiles, laughs at something he says.

Ryo watches in silence as the man gets an americano and a chocolate croissant without even breaking a sweat.

Unfair.

Everything about him is unfair.

Fabron turns back to Ryo as he takes his order from the counter. “Rough first morning?”

“I’m managing.”

“Mm. You look like it.” That smirk again. Dangerous.

Fabron sips his americano, eyes never leaving Ryo’s face. “You’re not used to being the one out of place, are you?”

Ryo clenches his jaw. “I didn’t come here to talk to you.”

Fabron shrugs. “Then stop standing so close.”

He walks past him, heading toward the window seat—but not before leaning in close enough for Ryo to catch the scent of his cologne.

Something crisp. Something expensive.

Something unfair.

“Enjoy your breakfast, monsieur,” Fabron says over his shoulder, like a challenge.

Ryo stares after him.

He doesn’t sit down. Just takes his tray and leaves.

He’s not ready for this kind of stress before 9AM.

Not with that man.

Not today.

…

Later that day, Ryo is led back into the building of the France branch of the company. His coworker (whose name he still hasn’t bothered to remember—oops) walks beside him, mumbling about some presentation they’ll be watching this afternoon.

Ryo doesn’t care. His head’s still hot from this morning.

The humiliation of barely ordering a croissant. The smug smirk on that man’s face. The smell of his goddamn cologne. That whole morning has been burned into his brain like a scar.

He exhales through his nose, trying to push it away.

He’s here to work.

That’s what he’s always been good at—head down, no distractions, get the job done. France is just a detour. A temporary assignment. He can suffer through the unfamiliarity if it means getting ahead.

They enter the conference room. It’s mostly unfamiliar faces—some Japanese expats, mostly French locals—but then—

There he is again.

Leaning against the long table, black blazer still perfect, talking to someone in fluent French and sipping another americano.

Ryo doesn’t even have time to react before Fabron glances up, meets his eyes, and smiles slowly.

“Back so soon?” he says.

Ryo scowls. “It’s work. Not exactly optional.”

Fabron’s smile widens. “Of course.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. He’s doing it on purpose. Ryo knows it. He knows what he’s doing with those long lashes and that unreadable expression.

Ryo swears internally and takes the furthest seat from him.

The meeting drags.

Some of it’s in French. Some of it’s English. None of it makes Ryo feel any less foreign. He scribbles notes, fights off a yawn, and tries not to look toward the other end of the table.

It’s only after it ends that he hears it again, quiet behind him:

“Didn’t know you liked my café.”

Ryo flinches.

Fabron is standing far too close again. His voice soft, his words dipped in some awful combination of amusement and something else Ryo can’t name.

“It’s not your café,” Ryo mutters.

“Mm, no. But I’m there most mornings. Same drink. Same seat. Didn’t strike me as your type of place.”

Ryo glares. “I didn’t go there because of you.”

Fabron leans in. Just slightly. Just enough to make Ryo’s breath catch.

“Didn’t say you did.”

He walks off without waiting for a response, leaving Ryo there, tense and furious and uncomfortably warm under his collar.

Chapter Text

The office is quiet.

Too quiet.

Only the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the clacking of keys from Ryo’s desk break the silence. It’s past 10 PM. Everyone else has gone home hours ago—at least, the French staff have. Ryo’s Japanese coworker is still here, but barely conscious, head bobbing every few minutes like a broken toy.

Ryo doesn’t even flinch anymore when he hears the soft thud of a forehead hitting a desk across the room.

“行ったほうがいいよ” (You should go) Ryo says, not looking up from the document he's working on.
“私たちはもう十分ここにいる.” (We’ve been here long enough)

His coworker stirs. “えーっと…もうすぐ終わりですね?” (Ehh… We’re almost done, right)

“いいえ,” (No) Ryo replies bluntly. “まだ予算セクションを確定し、次の四半期の予測を追加する必要があります.” (Still need to finalize the budget section and add the projections for next quarter)

“うわぁ…もう、全部終わらせてくれる？ 借りがあるんだ。もう本当にまともに考えられない…” (Ugh... Just—can you finish it? I’ll owe you. I really can’t think straight anymore…)

Ryo sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and nods without speaking.

His coworker lets out a relieved “Arigatou,” grabs his bag, and shuffles toward the elevator like a ghost. The doors close with a ding, and then it’s just Ryo. Alone. Again.

He lets out a long breath and stares at the screen. His eyes sting.

He doesn't even notice the dark figure watching him from the floor above.

—

Behind the tinted glass of the mezzanine, Vincent Fabron stands silently.

He should’ve gone home.

He told himself he would hours ago, but when he passed the floor below on his way out and saw him —the quiet, work-obsessed, stone-faced Japanese man still hunched over his desk—he paused.

Now, here he is. Coat slung over one arm, tie loosened slightly, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as ever.

He watches Ryo Kiritani scroll through a spreadsheet, click, edit, adjust, sigh, repeat.

He’s meticulous. Efficient. Exhausted.

Vincent leans a little closer to the glass. He doesn’t know why he’s still here.

Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s because Ryo glared at him like no one else in this office dares to.
Maybe it’s the way the other man is always so composed , so closed-off—
Yet right now, under this cold white light, Vincent sees something in his expression. Something unguarded. Something soft.

Ryo rubs his temples, rolls his shoulders, and types something again.

Vincent doesn’t move.

He just watches.

And when Ryo finally stands to stretch and glance around the dark office floor…

Vincent is already gone.

The glass reflects nothing but the night.

…

The next morning, Ryo Kiritani arrives at the office exactly on time, like always.

He’s well-groomed, freshly shaven, dressed sharply in his suit and tie, with his black coat folded over one arm. The cold French air still clings to his skin even inside the building. He bows politely to the receptionist and walks straight toward his temporary desk with a quiet, purposeful stride.

No one says anything to him. No one ever really does.

The French staff nod politely or murmur a greeting at best. Ryo doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to waste energy on small talk. He has too much to do, too many files to organize, too many translations to clean up, too many numbers to double-check. He sets his coffee down, opens his laptop, and gets to work.

What he doesn’t notice—

—is that he’s being watched. Again.

Vincent Fabron leans casually against the upper-floor railing, coffee in hand, observing the floor below like a bored cat watching birds. His suit today is dark charcoal, crisp and expensive, and the chain of a gold pocket watch glints faintly against his vest. He doesn’t look like someone who runs a company. He looks like someone who owns half of Paris and doesn’t even need to try.

But for now?

He’s interested in one thing.

Ryo. The name fits him.

It’s been a week since the Japanese team arrived.

And Ryo Kiritani has barely spoken more than a few sentences to anyone outside of direct business needs.

No wasted words. No wasted time. Always the first to arrive, always the last to leave. Eyes dark and serious. Vincent has seen his type before—but never like this.

There’s something… tight about him. Not just disciplined. Wound-up. Like a thread stretched to its breaking point, and no one’s pulled it yet.

And Vincent?

He wants to pull it.

Just a little.

So, today… he decides he will.

He walks down the steps like he owns the place—which he does—and heads straight for Ryo’s desk, ignoring the quiet ripple of attention that follows him.

Ryo doesn’t notice at first.

But then he feels the presence —the kind that makes your skin bristle and your spine straighten instinctively. He looks up.

Vincent Fabron is standing in front of him.

Again.

“Monsieur Kiritani,” Vincent says smoothly, his accent as rich as wine.
“Working hard this morning?”

Ryo stiffens. “Yes. Good morning.”

Vincent hums, glancing at the documents on his screen without asking. He leans forward just slightly, just enough that Ryo can smell the faint trace of cologne—woodsy, expensive, distracting.

“You’ve already finished the reports for the Osaka merger? That was fast.”

Ryo blinks. “…I finished it last night.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “Ah. Of course you did.”

There’s a pause. Ryo doesn’t look away, but there’s tension in his shoulders now.

Vincent smiles faintly. “Do you always stay that late?”

“…Only when there’s work to be done.”

“I see.” He taps the edge of the desk with his fingers once, then adds:

“You should let someone know when you’re staying that late. Safety protocol.”

Ryo nods, eyes narrowing slightly. “Noted.”

Vincent’s smile lingers for a moment longer before he pushes away from the desk.

“Carry on, monsieur.”

And just like that, he turns and walks off, his coat swaying behind him, his eyes already on something—or someone—else.

Ryo watches him leave.

His jaw is tight. His fingers curl slightly on the mouse.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath.

Ryo is doing everything right.

He arrives early, gets his work done, speaks only when necessary. He wears his suit. He answers emails on time. He doesn't cause trouble. He even started memorizing the office layout.

And yet.

Somehow.

Vincent Fabron is always around.

At first, Ryo thought maybe it was just coincidence. That Vincent happened to pass by his desk once, maybe twice, during rounds.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Sometimes Vincent walks by, pausing just long enough to say something vague like “Working hard, monsieur?” or “Another long night?”

Other times, he doesn’t say anything at all—just lingers by the coffee machine, watching the floor below like he’s waiting for something to happen.

Or someone.

Ryo tries to ignore it.

He really does.

But today, it’s worse.

Today, Vincent doesn’t just pass by.

He sits down.

Right next to him.

“What are you working on today, monsieur Kiritani?”

Ryo doesn’t even look up from his laptop.

“…Quarterly breakdown.”

“Ah, numbers. You like those?”

Ryo gives a tight nod. “They make sense.”

Vincent hums, leaning back in the chair like this is a coffee shop chat and not a corporate setting. “Mm. I suppose they do. Cold, logical, unchanging. Like you.”

Ryo’s fingers freeze briefly over the keyboard.

Then he continues typing.

He doesn’t say anything.

Vincent chuckles softly under his breath. “I meant that as a compliment.”

“…I’m working.”

“Of course,” Vincent says. But he doesn’t leave.

He just watches.

Unbothered. Silent. Amused.

After several minutes of unbearable tension, Ryo finally glances sideways.

“Do you… need something, monsieur Fabron?”

Vincent smiles, slow and easy. “Just curious.”

“I’m trying to focus.”

“So I see.”

Ryo stares at him.

Vincent doesn’t budge.

This man is insufferable.

“Is this a French custom?” Ryo mutters under his breath. “To bother people at work?”

Vincent smirks. “Non. Just my custom.”

Ryo exhales sharply through his nose. He goes back to typing. He’s not going to give Fabron the satisfaction of cracking.

But inside, something's crawling under his skin.

Why is this man so interested in him? What does he want? They’ve barely spoken, they come from completely different departments, different countries, different worlds. Ryo is just here to work. He’s not here to socialize. He’s not here to—

“You should come out for lunch with me.”

Ryo nearly slams the enter key.

He turns his head slowly. “What?”

Vincent shrugs. “You’ve been eating in the break room every day. I assume you haven’t had a proper French meal yet.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just lunch.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Vincent watches him a moment longer.

Then, finally—finally—he stands up.

But before he walks away, he leans in just a little closer, voice lower, soft enough only Ryo can hear:

“You’re very good at pretending you don’t want attention, monsieur Kiritani.”

“But I see you.”

Ryo stares, eyes wide.

And then Vincent walks off.

Like he didn’t just light a fuse and leave the match behind.

Chapter Text

Ryo’s eyes are heavy. He tries his best to focus, but the hours of sleep he lost catching up on emails and spreadsheets, the meetings that stretched endlessly throughout the day—everything blurs together like static.

The conference room is cold. The hum of the projector sounds like a drone. Vincent is talking. He’s always talking—eloquent, confident, effortlessly sharp. His French accent carries over the meeting room, and Ryo finds himself watching him like an automaton, just waiting for it to be over.

Please let it be over.

Vincent gestures to a presentation slide, his words flowing smoothly, effortlessly. Everyone around him seems engaged, nodding, taking notes. But Ryo?

He can barely keep his eyes open.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to stay awake. It’s just that his mind has reached a point of overload, and the warm, rich tones of Vincent’s voice, the quiet clicking of keyboards, the endless presentation slides—they’re like lullabies.

His head dips slightly. His eyelids feel like lead.

“...And that concludes the presentation on the quarterly budget and personnel allocation for next quarter. Any questions?”

Ryo’s head jerks up as Vincent’s words echo through his brain, pulling him back from the edge of sleep.

“...No questions,” Ryo mutters, forcing himself to stay alert, but his voice comes out like a rasp. It’s probably barely audible.

Before he knows it, the meeting is dismissed, and Ryo’s already pushing himself to stand. He gathers his things quickly, trying to slip out unnoticed. He’ll head back to the office, make up for his lack of focus, get a few more hours of work done—anything to escape the suffocating air in the room.

But as his hand touches the doorknob, he hears a sharp click.

“Ryo, where do you think you’re going?”

His body freezes.

Vincent’s voice, smooth like honey, slices through the air, and Ryo feels a knot tighten in his chest.

Slowly, reluctantly, Ryo turns around.

Vincent is standing near the front of the room, greeting everyone with casual goodbyes and pats on the back. But his gaze is fixed on Ryo, that ever-present smirk on his lips. It’s like he’s caught something Ryo didn’t even realize was a trap.

“You’re leaving?” Vincent asks, and there’s a subtle, knowing tone there. “After such an insightful meeting?”

Ryo doesn’t know what to say. He was trying to leave without causing a scene, but that’s not going to work now. Not with Vincent’s eyes locked on him.

The others are still chatting, heading out, oblivious to the strange tension building in the room. But Vincent doesn’t seem to care about the social dance. His focus is entirely on Ryo now.

Ryo gulps, his throat dry. “I—I need to get back to the office. I have more work to do.”

Vincent clicks his tongue in disapproval, clearly not buying it.

“No, no, no. We’re going to address this, Monsieur Kiritani,” he says, each word dripping with authority. “I’m sure everyone here would agree that you look exhausted.”

Ryo wants to protest. He wants to tell Vincent that he’s fine, that he’s just been busy—but his body betrays him. His exhaustion is all over his face, no matter how much he tries to mask it.

“Here’s the thing,” Vincent continues, tone dropping just a little lower, sharper. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground, and I think it's time you took a proper break.”

The tension in the room thickens. Ryo’s chest tightens, his stomach drops. His mind races, and the pressure of Vincent’s gaze feels suffocating.

“I’m—fine,” Ryo tries again, but his voice cracks. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince—Vincent or himself.

“No, you’re not,” Vincent responds immediately, before Ryo can even finish his sentence. “You’re going to take care of yourself. I’m not going to have a half-dead employee walking around the office. You’re important, and I’ll be damned if I let you burn out.”

Ryo opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Vincent’s eyes harden, that smirk slipping into something more serious.

“I’m ordering you to take the afternoon off tomorrow, and you’re going to lunch with me.” Vincent leans in slightly, his voice lowering just enough that Ryo can feel the weight of his words. “You will eat at a French restaurant. You will not skip this. Or—”

There’s a pause.

Ryo feels his heart stop for a moment.

“...Or I’ll have no choice but to remove you from this project.”

Ryo’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes widen.

Fired.

Vincent’s threat lingers in the air, sharp and clear. Ryo can almost hear the finality in it. A threat, sure, but also a command. He knows how Vincent works. The man doesn’t give second chances. And now, Ryo is being forced into a situation where he has no choice but to obey.

“I… I don’t understand why this is so important to you,” Ryo says quietly, the question spilling out before he can stop it. He’s genuinely confused—why is this man so invested in him, of all people?

Vincent doesn’t hesitate, leaning forward slightly, his smirk returning.

“Because I see potential in you, Ryo Kiritani,” he says, his voice low and almost predatory. “And I’m not about to watch you ruin it because you don’t know how to take care of yourself. Trust me, you’re not leaving that restaurant tomorrow. Consider it a business lunch. No exceptions.”

Ryo’s stomach twists. He doesn’t know whether to be more terrified of the threat hanging over his head or the fact that Vincent is somehow taking all of this so seriously.

Vincent walks to the door, pauses, and turns back.

“Tomorrow, Kiritani. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

…

Ryo shows up five minutes early.

Not because he’s eager. Not because he wants to be here.

But because Vincent Fabron terrifies him, and the last thing he needs is to be blacklisted in France.

It’s cold, of course. Paris wind biting through the seams of his coat. He shuffles awkwardly in front of the restaurant—some quaint little bistro with ivy crawling up its brick walls and a chalkboard menu written entirely in French. Ryo can’t read a single thing on it. He pretends to study it anyway.

The door opens behind him with a soft jingle.

“Right on time,” comes a smooth, unmistakably smug voice.

Ryo doesn’t have to look to know it’s him. That voice has already burrowed too deep in his brain.

Vincent steps beside him, dressed in an unreasonably expensive-looking coat, scarf draped over one shoulder like he’s walking out of a fashion shoot. His cologne is subtle but strong. Rich. Dangerous.

Ryo straightens his posture and immediately regrets it.

“Let’s go,” Vincent says, opening the door for him like a damn gentleman. Ryo wants to refuse—wants to say he can open it himself—but the man’s eyes leave no room for debate.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and dimly lit. The smell of butter and herbs drifts through the air like a spell. Ryo sits stiffly across from Vincent, whose expression is unreadable as always. A waiter arrives and starts speaking French a mile a minute.

“Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît. Et le menu du jour.” (Two coffees, please. And today's menu.)

The waiter gives them the menus. 

The menu contained the names of French dishes and drinks. Ryo definitely couldn’t understand French. What he does understand is that—this restaurant’s prices were high as fuck.  

“I don’t have that much money.” Ryo mumbles, Vincent doesn’t even look up from the menu. 

99 euros for a fucking uhhh uhhh french thing!

The Japanese man wasn’t given time to further ponder. “I’ll pay, don’t worry, monsieur.” Then, Vincent started rambling in French to the waiter. The waiter nodded and straddled away.

Ryo blinks.

“...You ordered for me?”

“Oui,” Vincent says easily, handing the menus back. “You would’ve taken fifteen minutes to try saying croissant again.”

Ryo flushes. “I wasn’t going to order a croissant…”

“You were going to try to order a croissant,” Vincent corrects with a glint in his eye.

Ryo huffs, crossing his arms. “This isn’t a date, you know.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “Of course not. I’m not that unprofessional.”

“But you are threatening to fire me if I don’t eat lunch with you.”

“Exactly.” Vincent leans forward, chin in hand, lips curved ever so slightly. “Very professional of me.”

Ryo looks away, eyes flicking to the restaurant window. The cold outside suddenly looks much easier to handle than whatever this lunch is turning into. Every beat is loaded with tension, unspoken challenge, and a weird sort of intimacy.

Their coffees arrive. Black. Strong. Vincent watches Ryo take a sip, probably looking for a reaction. Ryo doesn’t give him one, but he does nearly die choking on it because it’s the most bitter thing he’s ever tasted.

Vincent smiles like he noticed anyway.

They don’t talk for a while. The silence is weirdly not uncomfortable, but Ryo keeps fidgeting. Checking his phone. Sipping his coffee. Tapping his foot. Vincent, by contrast, is still. Effortless. Like he belongs here.

Ryo glances up. “Why are you doing this?”

Vincent looks amused. “Doing what?”

“This.” Ryo gestures vaguely to the space between them. “You don’t care about the other people in the company. So why me?”

A long pause. Vincent’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does.

“Because you don’t care either,” Vincent says quietly. “You walk into a room and look like you’d rather be anywhere else. You treat work like war. No small talk. No fake smiles. You just do your job. Like me.”

Ryo swallows.

“That’s not—”

“But the difference,” Vincent cuts in, “is I know when to stop. You don’t.”

"And, maybe," he paused like it was gonna cost dramatic effect. "we've met before." Vincent adds.

Their food arrives before Ryo can respond or ask what the hell that meant. Plates of something rich and buttery and soft-looking. He doesn’t know what it is, but it smells incredible.

Vincent nods toward it. “Eat.”

“I don’t even know what this is,” Ryo mutters, inspecting it suspiciously.

“Chicken. With sauce.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“You’ll live.”

Ryo takes a bite. And okay— okay. Maybe French food really is that good. His eyes widen slightly, and Vincent notices.

“See?” Vincent says. “Not everything in this country is awful.”

Ryo glares at him over his fork. “Still doesn’t mean I like being here.”

“I never said you had to.” Vincent’s voice softens just enough to surprise him. “But you’re here. Might as well survive it properly.”

Ryo looks down at his plate.

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to him since he landed.

They finish the meal in a weird kind of truce. Vincent doesn’t push him to talk. Ryo doesn’t run out the door. And by the end of it, when Vincent stands and tosses cash onto the table like the bill doesn’t matter, Ryo realizes something strange:

He’s not tired for the first time in days.

As they step back outside, the wind bites again, but something in Ryo’s chest feels warmer.

“Same time next week?” Vincent asks casually, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with one hand.

Ryo blinks. “...What?”

“You need routine,” Vincent says, walking ahead. “We’ll call it mandatory lunch hours. Every Wednesday.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You will.”

Ryo scowls at his back. “You’re unbelievable.”

Vincent turns slightly, giving him a sideways glance, smoke curling from his lips.

“I’ve been called worse, mon cher.”

And just like that, he disappears into the crowd.

Ryo stands there a moment longer, stunned, the taste of good food still lingering on his tongue—and something else he refuses to name.

---

Back at his temporary home in France— flat, they called it here—Ryo sat by the window, a lukewarm cup of tea cooling between his hands.

Outside, the city was lit in gold. He could hear faint traffic, the murmur of distant conversations he still didn’t understand. It had been only a few weeks since his transfer, but already the days were blurring together—new customs, unfamiliar language, a boss too smooth for his own good.

Vincent Fabron.

Ryo rolled the name around in his head like a bitter candy.

The date they had gone on earlier that afternoon—if he could even call it that—had felt easy. Comfortable. Even though he didn’t show it. Which was precisely why it was now bothering the hell out of him. There was something familiar about Vincent. The cadence of his voice, the curve of his smirk, the way his eyes lingered too long on Ryo’s face like they’d studied it before.

“And, maybe, we’ve met before.” Vincent’s voice echoed.

Ryo frowned and leaned back into the couch, rubbing at his forehead.

Where had he seen him before?

Not the office. Not before France. But somewhere .

And then it came to him—quick as lightning. The ramen shop.

Ryo sat up.

That cold night in Tokyo. The steam rising off his bowl, the crackle of oil in the kitchen. He hadn’t paid much attention to the man beside him, only noticed him when he fumbled with his chopsticks like a nervous tourist. Ryo had helped without thinking—snapped a clean pair, rubbed the splinters off, handed them over with a grunt.

The man had thanked him. Terrible Japanese.

And now, he remembered.

He bought me a drink.

It was a small gesture, barely worth remembering—but Ryo remembered the way that drink had felt in his hand. The heat of the alcohol. The peace he’d had for just a moment, like the chaos of his work life had finally paused.

Then weeks later, the mall. New assignment in hand, anxiety kicking in, and there he was again. The same man. Helping him find a coat. Smiling like he knew Ryo better than Ryo knew himself. Memorizing his name from his card. Slipping away before Ryo could ask his.

And now?

He was his boss .

Ryo let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“That slick bastard,” he muttered.

It wasn’t just coincidence. Vincent had known . Had recognized him. Had played along.

Every conversation. Every look across the boardroom. Every small smirk like he was hiding something.

He was.

Ryo stood up, pacing to the window. His heart was racing, but he didn’t know why. It wasn’t anger , exactly. More like the disorienting pull of a puzzle finally slotting into place.

He’d thought France would be a fresh start. Something new. He didn’t expect to run into a ghost from Tokyo ramen nights and have him reappear in a tailored suit behind the executive desk.

And worse: Ryo had agreed to see him again.

He laughed once—short, bitter.

“You sneaky asshole,” he said aloud, though there was no one around to hear it.

But even now, as he stared out at the glowing city, he could feel the phantom weight of Vincent’s gaze again—like the man had never stopped watching him, even back then.

Ryo didn’t know what the hell this meant.

But something told him this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

It was cold the night Ryo ducked into the tiny ramen joint, the kind that smelled like miso and cigarettes and had cracked bar stools lined up against a steamy open kitchen. He didn’t remember the name of the place, only that it was tucked between two buildings near the Tokyo office—too small to be crowded, too loud to feel alone.

He sat down, nodded at the chef, and ordered the usual. It had been a long day, and he was starving.

Long office hours as always, and as hard-working as Ryo is, sometimes, he just needs a break or two. And what more comforting than a bowl of hot ramen at night?

He didn’t notice the man who slid onto the stool next to him until the ramen was placed in front of him, steaming and perfect, and he was halfway through slurping down the first bite. He tasted the milky broth, the egg that was perfectly boiled, and a few slices of beef and vegetables. He was in heaven.

It wasn’t until the man beside him made a frustrated little noise that Ryo glanced over and got snapped out of his food haze.

Foreign. Well-dressed. Brunette. He was holding his chopsticks like a fork, one hand awkwardly gripping the pair as if afraid they might bite back.

Ryo blinked, ramen halfway to his mouth.

The man glanced at him. And then quickly away. And then back again.

Ryo stared. The guy looked nervous—visibly sweating, face pinched in a way that said I’m trying very hard to blend in but I am clearly failing. The bowl in front of him was untouched.

Another noise—almost a groan of defeat.

Ryo sighed through his nose, setting his chopsticks down. He reached over without a word, plucked the unused wooden pair from the napkin holder in front of them, and snapped them clean in two. He rubbed them together briskly—knocking off the splinters the man probably hadn’t even noticed—and handed them over with a curt little nod.

The man blinked. Took the chopsticks with both hands like he was being offered a sacred item. Then said, haltingly:

“ありがとう…ございます。”

Ryo raised an eyebrow. The accent was terrible. But the effort was… not awful.

He returned to his ramen without a word.

The man beside him tried again—this time holding the sticks properly, if clumsily. He fumbled with the noodles, managing to slurp up a few. Ryo didn’t watch him. He focused on his broth, the warmth sinking into his bones.

A few minutes passed. Then a drink slid toward him on the bar counter. A highball, freshly poured.

He blinked. Turned his head.

The man beside him gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “For your kindness,” he said, accent still thick but smoother now. “A drink.”

Ryo stared. Then shrugged. Took the drink.

A few sips in and the tension in his shoulders eased. He didn’t remember how long he stayed. Didn’t remember if they talked again. He just remembered the taste of miso on his tongue, the sting of alcohol in his chest, and the quiet hum of the city outside.

By the time he left, he’d already forgotten the man’s name—if he ever learned it at all.

—-

It was a chilly afternoon when Ryo stepped into the department store, breath fogging in the air as automatic doors closed behind him. His office had just dropped the news—France. Six months, minimum. His manager had called it an “exciting opportunity,” but all Ryo could think about was how much colder Europe would be.

He didn’t own anything remotely warm enough.

“Jackets,” he muttered to himself, heading toward the racks with grim purpose. “Nothing fancy. Just warm.”

But the men’s winter section turned out to be a mess of puffer monstrosities and designer labels he couldn’t read. Ryo frowned at a black coat with far too many zippers. “Why does this look like it belongs in a sci-fi movie…”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

The voice—smooth, amused, vaguely familiar—came from behind him.

Ryo turned.

A tall man stood there, dressed far too well for a retail assistant. Grey wool coat, sharp jawline, faint stubble, and a smirk that said I know something you don’t. His brunette hair was swept back with almost irritating elegance.

He looked expensive. And a bit familiar? Whatever or whoever it was, Ryo couldn’t quite make out who the person before him was.

“...Right,” Ryo said, flipping the coat around. It still looked stupid.

The man stepped closer, picking a jacket off the rack beside him. “Try this one instead. Less dystopian hero, more ‘I’m not freezing to death outside a café.’” He held it out like an offering.

Ryo narrowed his eyes. “Do you work here?”

“No,” the man said brightly. “But I’m bored.”

Ryo blinked. “You’re bored so you decided to… help me shop?”

“Well, you looked like you were in pain. I took pity.”

Ryo scowled and snatched the jacket. “Thanks, I guess.”

The man followed him as he walked toward the fitting rooms, utterly uninvited.

“You’re not from around here,” the man said, hands casually tucked in his coat pockets.

“No shit.”

The man chuckled. “Going somewhere colder?”

“France.”

“Ah.” A sparkle in his eyes. “How long?”

“Six months.” Ryo paused, then added reluctantly, “Work.”

The man nodded like he already knew. “You’ll need gloves. And a scarf. And better boots.”

“Do you always harass strangers at malls?”

“Only the ones buying tactical winter coats like it’s a mission briefing.” He tilted his head. “Besides, you don’t remember me, do you?”

Ryo frowned. “Have we met?”

The man just smiled, all sly and unreadable. “You were slurping ramen like your life depended on it.”

Ryo blinked. “What—?”

“Chopsticks,” the man said. “You helped me use them.”

And suddenly, it clicked.

“You’re the guy from the ramen place!” Ryo pointed at him, mildly horrified. “You looked like you were going to cry.”

“I was being culturally respectful,” the man said smoothly. “Poorly. But the effort was there.”

Ryo gave him a flat look.

The man’s gaze softened for just a moment, flicking over Ryo’s face like he was committing every line to memory. “I’m french,” he said, “In case you were wondering.”

Ryo hesitated. “My name is Ryo.”

“Pleasure.” Vincent said it like he meant it.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me yours?” Ryo grunted.

The man beside him chuckled, “You’ll know eventually.”

What the hell did that mean. Whatever. Ryo didn’t care.

Ryo moved to pay for the jacket, trying not to overthink it. But when he handed the cashier his card, he caught the brunette man glancing at the name—subtle, but not that subtle.

“Kiritani,” Vincent repeated, voice low.

Ryo squinted. “You always read other people’s cards?”

“Only when I’m learning names.”

Before Ryo could respond, Vincent was already backing away with a wink. “See you around, Kiritani-san.”

Ryo stared after him, heart thudding a little too fast.

“What the hell was that ,” he muttered.

He wouldn’t remember the brand of jacket he bought that day.

But he would remember the man who gave it to him.

Chapter Text

Ryo doesn’t like change.

He’s built his life around routines—coffee at 7 a.m., no breakfast, work until his spine gives out, suffering in silence. Even in France, far away from Tokyo and the only world he knew, he tried to hold on to that structure. That’s why lunch with Vincent on Wednesdays… became something.

A checkpoint.

A strange little hour where he wasn’t fighting against the tide.

But now?

Now she’s here.

Every day.

Her name is Élodie , and she smells like roses and wealth and something sharp underneath. Her company is one of the major investors in a joint project Vincent’s team is handling—something about international resource logistics, Ryo couldn’t care less. All he knows is that she walks into the office like she owns it.

Click. Click. Click.

He can hear her heels from across the building.

She’s beautiful, of course. Immaculately dressed. Smiles like she knows she’s already won. And she flirts with Vincent like it’s a full-time job.

Leaning into his personal space.

Touching his arm in meetings.

Interrupting presentations with jokes that aren’t funny but get laughs anyway.

And Vincent?

To Ryo’s utter frustration, Vincent lets her.

Not because he likes her. No. Ryo can tell the difference now—he’s seen how Vincent looks when he’s actually amused. This isn’t it.

But Vincent is smart. He knows when to play nice.

Especially when millions of euros are involved.

Ryo spends the first two days ignoring it.

By day three, he finds himself glaring holes into the back of Élodie’s head whenever she laughs at something Vincent says.

By day four, Vincent cancels their Wednesday lunch.

“Apologies. Investor meeting over lunch—can’t be helped.”

Ryo stares at the text longer than he should. He doesn’t reply. He just sits at his desk, jaw clenched, stomach empty.

He ends up eating instant noodles alone in the break room.

Again.

The next time Élodie visits, it’s during a team-wide meeting. Ryo’s already half asleep, but he jerks upright when she waltzes in— late, no less—smiling with a kind of performative grace.

She walks straight over to Vincent, places a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to whisper something.

Vincent’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a sigh, but he nods, responding just as quietly.

Ryo watches the whole thing from across the room, pen clenched so tight in his hand it might snap in half.

His coworker nudges him. “彼女はSynCoreの出身ですよね？ライバルの?” (She’s from SynCore, right? The rival branch)

Ryo doesn’t answer. He’s too busy imagining the different ways she could stop existing.

Vincent speaks again, addressing the room. “Excuse me, I’ll be stepping out briefly. Continue with the review in my absence.”

He doesn’t look at Ryo as he leaves with her.

But Ryo doesn’t stop looking.

It becomes a pattern.

Élodie showing up unannounced. Vincent going quiet. Meetings rescheduled. Projects paused. One-on-one check-ins with Ryo pushed back or cancelled altogether.

And the worst part?

Ryo can’t even explain why it bothers him so much.

It’s not like he and Vincent are friends.

Not really.

They don’t talk about anything personal. Don’t even message outside of scheduled work hours. But somehow, the absence hurts —like something that was never his is slipping further away.

By Friday, Ryo’s had enough.

He stays late at the office again, long after everyone else has left. The building is silent, save for the low hum of the overhead lights. He finishes the day’s work in record time, hoping— praying —he won’t see Vincent at all.

And that’s exactly when the elevator dings.

Footsteps echo through the corridor.

And then—

“Still working?” Vincent’s voice cuts through the silence.

Ryo doesn’t look up. “Always.”

A pause.

“I was looking for you earlier,” Vincent says lightly, walking toward his desk. “Didn’t see you during the break.”

“I figured you were busy,” Ryo replies, tone flat. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

Vincent stops in front of him. “Intrude?”

“With your guest, ” Ryo adds, before he can stop himself. The word is bitter on his tongue.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“She’s not a guest. She’s an investor. And she’s leaving next week.”

That last part hangs in the air like bait.

Ryo finally looks up.

Vincent’s eyes are sharp, studying him closely. “Something wrong?”

Ryo meets his gaze, jaw tight. “No.”

Vincent steps closer.

“Really?”

His voice dips low, enough to make Ryo’s fingers curl against the desk.

He hates this. Hates the way his pulse quickens. The way Vincent always seems to know.

“No,” Ryo repeats, standing abruptly. “I’ll be going now.”

But as he turns to leave, Vincent’s hand catches his wrist— just enough pressure to make him stop.

“You haven’t eaten,” Vincent says, voice soft.

Ryo doesn’t respond.

“We could go now. Make up for Wednesday.”

Ryo looks at him.

And maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s the warmth of Vincent’s touch, or the way his expression shifts—just a little softer, just a little less guarded.

But for the first time, Ryo doesn’t pull away.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m not hungry.”

Vincent’s mouth twitches. “I’ll order dessert, then.”

And just like that, they’re walking side by side again, out into the night.

The restaurant Vincent picks is too nice.

Ryo knows this the second they step inside. The lights are warm, low, casting soft golden glows across white tablecloths and polished cutlery. There’s French being spoken at every table, subtle classical music in the background, and the faint smell of herbs and meat and—was that truffle oil?

“This isn’t a ‘grab food and go’ place,” Ryo mutters, instinctively tugging at his coat sleeves.

Vincent gives a light hum, not quite a smile. “No, it’s not.”

“…You said we’d get dessert.”

“We will,” he replies smoothly, guiding them to a table with a view of the Seine. “After dinner.”

Ryo sits reluctantly, legs stiff under the table. He didn’t want this to be fancy. Fancy meant questions. Attention. Emotional vulnerability. And Vincent—Vincent looked like he was thriving in this atmosphere. Hair perfect, suit perfect, smile practiced.

They order. Vincent does most of the talking, switching effortlessly between French and English. Ryo just points to a random item and hopes he won’t regret it.

And then there’s wine.

Vincent pours it himself, watching Ryo’s reaction when the deep red liquid hits the glass.

“What?” Ryo asks, suspicious.

“Nothing,” Vincent says, swirling his own. “Just… surprised you agreed to come.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Mm. But you did.”

Ryo doesn’t answer. He takes a sip instead. Too smooth. Too good. He hates it.

Dinner comes. It’s stupidly delicious. Ryo tries to act unimpressed, chewing slowly as Vincent talks about a new development in their branch merger. Business talk, easy and safe.

But Ryo isn’t listening.

He’s watching the way Vincent’s fingers curl around the wine glass. The way the candlelight plays on his cheekbones. The way he’s so calm, even after the whirlwind of Élodie and corporate politics and long hours at the office.

Vincent looks… tired, under all the polish.

Ryo knows that look. He wears it, too.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Ryo says suddenly, setting down his fork.

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Take me out. Worry about me. You’re busy. You’ve got people falling over themselves to get your attention.”

Vincent chuckles. It’s soft and low. “Ah. So you did notice.”

“Tch.” Ryo looks away. “Hard not to. She interrupts every meeting.”

There’s a beat.

“You’re jealous.”

“ No. ”

Vincent tilts his head, almost studying him. “You are.”

Ryo narrows his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re transparent.”

That earns him a sharp glare.

Vincent leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming.

“She doesn’t matter,” he says, voice quieter now. “Not like you do.”

Ryo freezes.

“…You’re just saying that”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that stretches between heartbeats and heavy confessions. Ryo grips the edge of the table and mutters:

“I’m not good at this.”

Vincent’s eyes soften.

“I know.”

“I don’t understand why you’re—” He cuts himself off. “Why you keep bothering with me.”

Vincent doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches forward, slowly, like he’s giving Ryo time to stop him—and brushes a thumb across Ryo’s cheekbone, so lightly it barely counts as a touch.

“You intrigue me, Kiritani-san.”

“…Don’t call me that here.”

Vincent smiles. “Then give me permission to use your first name.”

Ryo looks at him. Looks through him.

And maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe it’s the months of unspoken tension that have finally cracked just wide enough to let this moment slip through.

“…Fine,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Vincent’s smile deepens, slow and warm.

“Call me Vincent,” he replies.

Their fingers touch, briefly, under the table.

Neither of them pulls away.

Ryo looks out the window, admiring the view once more. Vincent’s gaze follows him.

“Have you explored the city yet?” He curiously tilted his head.

“No, haven’t got the time.” Ryo replied bluntly, trying hard not to look him in the eye while inhaling his food like a lifeline.

“You’ve been in France for months and haven’t seen anything?” 

Ryo blinked. Nodded.

That was all Vincent needed to know.

Chapter Text

Ryo Kiritani isn’t sure how he ends up outside on a Sunday. He’s always kept his weekends sacred—rest, laundry, maybe a stroll if the weather doesn’t suck. But somehow, Vincent Fabron had coaxed him out with a casual “You’ve been in France for months and haven’t seen anything” and a schedule-free afternoon that sounded harmless enough. Until Ryo realized harmless meant a full walking tour of the city—with him.

It started with a text.

“You have no meetings today. I’m picking you up at ten.”

Vincent had half expected Ryo to ignore it. That would have been in character—cold silence in place of a ‘no thank you.’ But ten o’clock came, and there Ryo was, arms crossed, waiting outside his apartment building in a dark coat and an even darker mood.

“What is this?” Ryo asked as he slid into the car, eyes narrowed.

Vincent only smiled. “A detour. Think of it as cultural immersion.”

Ryo made a sound like a scoff swallowed halfway, but he didn’t argue. Vincent took it as a win.

They drove without a destination in mind—or at least, that’s what Vincent let him believe. Truthfully, he had every stop planned. Nothing too flashy, nothing tourist-trap obvious. Just the places he liked best: quiet corners of the city that didn’t try too hard. Bookstores tucked into alleyways. Cafés that only locals knew. Sunday markets humming with lazy energy.

They start near the Marais, slipping past quiet streets and corner cafés that smell like butter and coffee. Vincent doesn’t walk like a tour guide; he strolls like he owns the place, pointing out bookshops and old bakeries like they’re long-lost friends. He talks too much, Ryo thinks. And yet, it’s not annoying. Not exactly. The man’s voice is smooth, easy, threaded with the kind of warmth Ryo never hears in meetings.

The air is crisp, the sky bright, and for once, Ryo’s not thinking about spreadsheets or deadlines or the upcoming investor check-ins.

Next, Montmartre.

The steps were annoying, Ryo said. Too many. Vincent laughed and said something about character building. At the top, they stood in silence, watching the city sprawl beneath a pale winter sky. Ryo’s eyes followed the rooftops, the winding streets, the tangled maze of Paris in its soft Sunday stillness.

“You always do this on weekends?” Ryo asked.

Vincent shrugged. “Only when I want to impress someone.”

Ryo didn’t respond. But he didn’t look away, either.

They wandered. Through cobbled lanes, past musicians playing violins near flower stalls, down streets that smelled like bread and rain. Ryo barely spoke, but Vincent didn’t mind. He’d grown to like the quiet between them—less like awkward silence, more like an invitation.

At some point, they ducked into a small shop full of antique postcards and rusted trinkets. Ryo paused by the display of old film cameras, tilting his head at one.

“You used to shoot?” Vincent asked, stepping beside him.

Ryo’s eyes flicked up. “No. My dad did. Had one of these. He never let me touch it.”

Vincent nodded, pretending not to notice the way Ryo’s voice softened.

They left with nothing but coffee. The sun was sinking by then, gold light pooling in the spaces between buildings. Vincent suggested a walk along the Seine. Ryo made a face. Vincent insisted. Ryo followed.

It’s when they’re walking along the Seine that Vincent tells a joke.

They didn’t talk about work. Not once.

And maybe that was what made Ryo laugh.

A joke about French pigeons being snobs compared to Tokyo’s. He didn’t even mean it to be funny—but Ryo huffed, rolled his eyes, and then— actually laughed.

It’s stupid. Ryo shouldn’t laugh. But he does—sharp, unexpected, real.

Not polite. Not forced. Not the kind of breath that passed for amusement in a meeting room.

Real laughter. Short. Sharp. Surprised.

Vincent almost stopped walking.

Vincent looks at him, half surprised, half pleased. “There it is,” he murmurs.

Ryo blinks. “What?”

“A real laugh. I was beginning to think you were incapable.”

“Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

Vincent chuckles. “Too late.”

And just like that, Ryo is back to feeling off-balance. Because it’s easy to hate Vincent at work—he’s polished, clever, infuriating. But out here, he’s something else. Warmer. Quieter. Human.

Too human.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” Ryo muttered after a beat, his ears tinged pink.

Vincent smiled. “I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“Tch. You act like it’s rare.”

“It is.”

Ryo glanced at him, something unreadable in his eyes. “Maybe you just tell bad jokes.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’ve wanted to laugh this whole time, but I’ve been failing to deliver?”

“No.” Ryo shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I’m saying you’re annoying.”

They stopped by the water. It was quieter here—no boats, no noise. Just the shuffle of wind and the low murmur of passersby. Vincent looked at him. Really looked.

And for the rest of the day, Ryo keeps catching himself—watching Vincent’s smile, the way he tucks his gloves into his coat, the way he seems to remember every detail of Ryo’s preferences without asking.

Ryo’s face was hard to read at the best of times. But there was something different today—less guarded, more open. He looked tired in the way people do when they finally let themselves feel safe.

Vincent turned slightly, shoulder brushing Ryo’s.

“This was nice,” he said, softer now.

Ryo didn’t answer right away.

“…I didn’t expect it to be.”

Vincent tilted his head. “Because it was me?”

“Because it’s you ,” Ryo echoed, then paused. “…You’re hard to figure out.”

“I could say the same.”

Ryo looked at him again, and this time he didn’t look away.

The wind caught Vincent’s scarf, tugging it sideways. Ryo reached out absently, fixing it without thinking. Just a brush of fingers, a nudge. But it was enough.

Vincent smiled. “Careful. That almost looked like affection.”

Ryo made a face. “Don’t push your luck.”

But he didn’t move away.

Not for a long time.

It’s disarming. Dangerous.

Not about Paris.

But about his boss.

By the time Vincent drops him back off to his apartment for rest at the dawn of sunset, Ryo is more confused than ever.

…

Even more confused when an hour or two later, he hears a knock on the door, fully knowing who is behind the hollow door of the apartment.

The invitation had come casually—too casually, if you asked Ryo.

“You’ve never been to the top?” Vincent had asked, reclining in the chair like he hadn’t just cornered Ryo in his own temporary apartment. “That’s criminal, mon cœur.”

Ryo had scowled at the nickname, muttered a noncommittal “Tch,” and tried to walk away.

That was twenty minutes ago. Now, here he was—standing at the foot of the Eiffel Tower at dusk, glaring up at the iron lattice like it personally offended him.

“I still don’t know why I agreed to this,” Ryo muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. It was colder than he expected at night, and Paris, with its glowing lamplights and pretentious beauty, was starting to get under his skin.

“You agreed,” Vincent said from beside him, smiling like a man who always got what he wanted, “because part of you was curious.”

Ryo shot him a look. “Curious about what?”

Vincent's gaze slid toward him with deliberate slowness. “Me.”

Ryo’s ears turned pink. He looked away immediately. “Shut the hell up.”

Vincent only laughed. “Come on. I already booked the tickets. You’ll enjoy the view.”

Ryo mumbled something under his breath in Japanese—probably a curse—before following the taller man toward the elevators. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more: that Vincent was being smug, or that he was right.

The ride up was quiet. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Ryo kept his eyes fixed on the metal grating, jaw set, while Vincent stood calmly beside him with his hands clasped behind his back.

By the time they reached the top, the sun had dipped behind the city skyline, leaving streaks of lavender and gold smeared across the horizon. The tower lights flickered on behind them, casting a soft glow over the platform.

Ryo walked toward the edge, leaning on the railing. The view was… something. Even he had to admit that.

“You know,” Vincent said from just behind him, voice lower now, more sincere, “I thought you’d cancel.”

Ryo glanced back at him. “I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” A pause. “You’d probably force me out anyway.”

Vincent smiled, stepping beside him. “Probably.”

They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching the city below. Paris looked different from up here—less pretentious, more peaceful. Ryo found himself breathing easier.

Vincent broke the quiet first. “You like it?”

Ryo hummed. “It’s alright.”

Vincent tilted his head. “That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

A breeze swept through, tousling Ryo’s hair. Without thinking, Vincent reached out and tucked a stray strand behind his ear. The touch was brief, almost absentminded—but it froze Ryo in place.

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t look at him either.

“I meant what I said before,” Vincent said quietly. “About wanting to get to know you. You intrigue me, Ryo.”

“You just like a challenge,” Ryo replied, tone flat.

“That too,” Vincent admitted. “But not only that.”

Ryo turned to him then, brows furrowed. “Why me? Seriously.”

Vincent didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Ryo like he was trying to memorize every line of his face—like he already had. His voice was softer now, careful.

“Because even on the worst day, you don’t pretend to be anything but yourself. You don’t try to charm anyone, yet here I am.”

Ryo blinked, lips parting slightly.

“Because,” Vincent continued, stepping a fraction closer, “you helped me with chopsticks in Tokyo without asking for anything back. Because you scowl at the world like it owes you something, and still hold the door open for strangers.”

“I didn’t—”

“And because I can’t stop thinking about how you looked that night in the ramen shop,” Vincent said, smiling faintly. “Even before I knew your name.”

Ryo’s breath hitched. The cold air around him makes his ears red. He felt chills around his body.

“…You remembered that?”

“I never forgot.”

The city buzzed far below them, but up here, everything stilled. For a moment, Ryo forgot the cold, the steel, the tension in his shoulders. All he could feel was the weight of Vincent’s gaze.

“…You’re annoying,” Ryo muttered eventually, face hot. “I didn’t come here to be flirted with.”

“You didn’t come to stop me, either.”

“God,” Ryo groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re impossible.”

Vincent chuckled, and this time, the silence between them felt lighter.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet. But when their hands brushed against each other, Ryo didn’t pull away. And when Vincent quietly asked if he wanted to stay for another half hour, Ryo nodded without complaint.

The tower glowed above them. The city sparkled below.

It wasn’t a date. Not really.

But maybe—just maybe—it was something close.

Chapter Text

It’s 9:42 AM.

Ryo Kiritani has been at the office since seven. Since his boss took him out on an all day tour around Paris. He didn’t hate it. Maybe he enjoyed it. He doesn’t know how to feel. 

What he does know is what he feels right now.

There are exactly three things in this world he hates more than morning meetings: cold coffee, being underprepared, and Élodie Fontaine.

Unfortunately, all three have made an appearance this morning.

The room is full—his team, some people from the finance department, and of course, Vincent Fabron at the head of the table. Ryo tries to focus on the report on his tablet, but she’s here again. Sitting next to Vincent like she belongs there. Smiling. Crossing her legs with that obnoxious little click of her heels. Speaking as if she’s part of the internal team when she’s not.

She leans over. Laughs at something Vincent says. Her arm brushes his.

Ryo’s pen breaks.

Nobody notices. Or they pretend not to.

Vincent glances at him briefly—eyebrows raised, curious. Ryo doesn’t meet his gaze.

Then she does it again. Flips her hair, interrupts someone mid-report, and asks Vincent a completely unrelated question. Loudly. With a flirty little lilt in her voice.

That’s it.

That’s the final straw.

Ryo mutters it before he even realizes:

“ああ、黙れよ、うるせぇ女.” (Shut up already, you loudass woman.)

The room goes still.

Vincent blinks.

Ryo freezes.

Élodie looks at him like he just grew a second head. “Excusez-moi?”

He doesn't clarify. Doesn’t translate. He just stares at her with the dull, dead-eyed rage of an overworked man who has simply had enough.

“…Did he just insult me?” she says, looking around for support.

Vincent doesn’t answer. He just clears his throat and straightens up in his seat.

“Kiritani,” he says, tone unreadable. “A word.”

Ryo stands immediately. He doesn’t even argue. He needs to get out of this room before he says something worse. He follows Vincent out into the hall like a student being dragged to the principal’s office.

They stop near the windows, out of earshot. Ryo braces for it. The lecture. The reprimand. The passive-aggressive French.

But it doesn’t come.

Vincent sighs… and leans against the glass.

“She was being difficult,” he says, almost casually.

Ryo blinks. “What?”

“I said, she was being difficult.” He glances over. “You just beat me to saying it.”

Ryo exhales, slow and shaky. “…Then why call me out?”

“Because you did it in front of the team.”

“You were going to say the same thing.”

“In French,” Vincent says, with a dry smirk. “Subtly.”

Ryo glares at him.

Vincent smiles wider. “But I’m impressed. Your tone was… sharp. Authoritative.” He tilts his head. “I quite liked it.”

“I wasn’t trying to be charming.”

“Oh, I know.”

They stare at each other for a second too long.

Then Vincent chuckles and straightens up again. “Go take a break. I’ll deal with her.”

“…Seriously?”

“You’ve earned it.”

Ryo blinks. He doesn't know what to say. So he just nods—small, stiff—and walks off.

Vincent watches him go with something unreadable in his eyes.

And inside the meeting room, Élodie frowns… suddenly not so sure she’s the one in control anymore.

…

The office is dark now. Quiet.

Ryo stretches in his chair, spine popping from hours of stiff posture. The building is nearly empty—his coworker left an hour ago after muttering something about train times and apologizing profusely for leaving Ryo to finish the reports.

As usual.

He exhales. Saves the final document. Leans back and closes his eyes for a second. It’s peaceful.

Then he hears the click of polished shoes on tile.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. “If that’s you again, I already told you I don’t have time for—”

“I brought dinner,” says a familiar voice.

Ryo freezes.

His eyes snap open.

Vincent Fabron stands there with two neatly packaged takeout boxes—some kind of French bento fusion, of course—and a smug little smile.

Ryo sits up slowly. “Why are you here?”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “This is my building, Ryo.”

“Why are you here here?” Ryo mutters, gesturing vaguely to the office space. “It’s past ten.”

“Thought you’d still be working,” Vincent says, setting the food down beside his keyboard. “And I was right.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No. But I think you earned it.”

Ryo squints at him. “…For yelling at your girlfriend?”

Vincent snorts. “Élodie is not my girlfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“She’s a partner. Her company funds part of the AI logistics system we’re developing.”

“Right,” Ryo says flatly. “That’s why she acts like she owns the place.”

Vincent leans closer, voice dropping. “And you? What exactly do you think you own, mon cher?”

Ryo stiffens.

“I’m just here to work,” he mutters, eyes on the food box now. It smells good. That pisses him off even more.

“You do that very well,” Vincent says. Then he smiles, a little too sharp. “But you’re terrible at hiding your temper.”

Ryo glares at him. “Then maybe stop testing it.”

Vincent chuckles under his breath. “You know… when you snapped in that meeting today?” He sits casually on the edge of Ryo’s desk. “You sounded like a man who finally had enough. It was… strangely satisfying.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“You didn’t,” Vincent says. “You just entertained me.”

Ryo exhales like he’s this close to hurling the food container at him. Instead, he peels the lid open. “Whatever. I’m hungry.”

Vincent watches him for a moment. His eyes soften—just a little.

He reaches over and opens his own box.

They eat in silence for a while.

Until, softly, Vincent says, “You know she doesn’t bother me.”

Ryo glances at him.

“She’s loud. But not dangerous.” He lifts a piece of fish with his fork. “You, on the other hand…”

Ryo stares. “What does that mean?”

Vincent smirks. “Just saying. I’ve never had to be cautious around Élodie.”

“…But you are around me?”

“Wouldn’t you be?” he says, meeting Ryo’s eyes. “You curse in a language I don’t speak fluently. Keep everything locked behind those quiet eyes. Refuse to play along with anyone.”

Ryo doesn’t respond.

“You’re unpredictable,” Vincent murmurs, voice like wine. “I like that.”

Ryo swallows a bite. It’s suddenly hard to chew.

He sets the box down. “I’m going back to the apartment.”

“You didn’t finish.”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

Vincent tilts his head. “Scared of me now?”

“No,” Ryo mutters, standing. “Just annoyed.”

He turns to leave—but Vincent speaks again, low, deliberate:

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Let me take you somewhere better.”

“…A restaurant, again?”

“A walk. A view. Something nice, again.”

Ryo pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“…You keep trying to make this into something,” he mutters. “I don’t know what you want.”

Vincent’s voice softens. “I want to know what you’re like when you’re not hiding behind work.”

Ryo doesn't answer.

He leaves without another word.

But his ears are red.

…

Ryo doesn’t want to go.

In fact, he wakes up fully planning to pretend yesterday and the day before never happened.

He puts on his coat. Drinks the bitter French instant coffee the apartment provided. Sighs at how god awful it is. Thinks about Vincent Fabron and immediately wishes for amnesia.

Then he gets to the office.

And the first thing he sees?

A note on his desk.

In perfect Japanese handwriting.

今日の午後六時。何も予定を入れないでください。
服装は自由。——V.F.
(6 p.m. today. Keep your schedule open. Wear whatever you like. —V.F.)

“…Tch.”

He crumples it. Doesn’t throw it away.

…

At exactly 5:59 p.m., Vincent appears in front of Ryo’s desk.

No warning. Just appears , like a final boss.

Ryo blinks at him, deadpan. “I said I was busy.”

“You didn’t.”

“I implied.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “You’re not very good at lying, Ryo.”

Ryo opens his mouth to argue—but Vincent just hands him something.

A scarf.

“...What is this?”

“It’s cold out,” Vincent says casually. “And you look like the type who forgets scarves exist.”

“I don’t need—”

“Put it on,” Vincent says, already turning away. “I’m not letting you get sick before the next budget meeting.”

“…You’re so dramatic,” Ryo mutters, but wraps it around his neck anyway.

They walk through a quiet part of Paris. The sun has just set, and the streetlamps are golden. Everything is a little too romantic for Ryo’s comfort. The air smells like rain and bread.

“I thought you hated me,” Ryo says flatly, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.

“I never said that.”

“You act like it.”

Vincent chuckles. “You act like you don’t care. But you’re the one who glared at Élodie like you were about to start a war.”

Ryo’s jaw clenches. “She was loud.”

“She was flirting.”

“I don’t care, ” he insists, too fast.

Vincent hums. “Of course.”

They stop in front of a quiet overlook—the Seine river winding below them, lit up by streetlamps and soft reflections.

Ryo exhales. “This is... nice.”

“I know,” Vincent says, then looks at him. “You don’t let yourself slow down, do you?”

Ryo tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You work harder than anyone I know,” Vincent says simply. “But you look like you haven’t taken a breath in years.”

Ryo doesn't answer.

“I used to be like that,” Vincent continues. “All ambition. All defense. No softness. It nearly killed me.”

Ryo blinks at him. Catches the seriousness in his tone.

“…But you’re soft now?”

Vincent grins. “Only for you, mon chéri”

“Don’t call me that,” Ryo says, ears pink. He doesn’t understand what it means, he does know it's a term of endearment though.

“You like it.”

“I hate it.”

Vincent steps a little closer.

Their eyes meet.

And for one brief moment—Ryo wonders what would happen if he didn’t pull away.

If he just—

“You’re cold,” Vincent murmurs, eyes flicking down to his fingers. “Let me—”

“I’m going home,” Ryo says suddenly, stepping back. “Thanks for the view.”

Vincent watches him.

And smiles, just a little. “Another time, then.”

Ryo walks off.

But he keeps the scarf.

Chapter Text

Wednesdays had become their thing.

Ryo didn’t know exactly when it stopped being incidental and began to become something he anticipated. All he knew was that it kept happening—week after week—until the pattern sank into his bones like muscle memory. A ritual neither of them acknowledged aloud, but one that mattered all the same.

He sat across from Vincent at the usual table in their usual overpriced French bistro. The place was too loud, too smug, too polished. It was the kind of restaurant where even your best suit felt inadequate, where the food arrived in delicate arrangements that did nothing to disguise how soulless it was.

Ryo pushed his fork through a sad mound of vegetables that had clearly died in vain. He set it down with a soft clink and leaned back with a sigh, eyes narrowing at his plate like it had personally insulted him.

“This place is overrated,” he muttered. “Too salty. Too… artificial. Not real food.”

Across from him, Vincent didn’t so much as glance up from his espresso. “You say that every week, mon cher. And yet, you’re still here.”

“I never say that. You drag me here.”

“No,” Vincent replied smoothly, setting his cup down. “I invite you. You simply keep showing up.”

He offered Ryo a sidelong glance, lips tilting in a smile so faint it barely qualified. “Which tells me you enjoy the company, even if the cuisine offends you.”

Ryo rolled his eyes and reached for his water. “I just haven’t found a better place yet.”

Vincent hummed, as if weighing something quietly in his mind. Then, just as lightly, he said, “Then allow me. Let me cook for you.”

Ryo sputtered, nearly choking on his drink. “Hah?!”

“I’m serious.” Vincent stood, brushing invisible crumbs from his pressed slacks with the kind of precision that always made Ryo feel like he was crumpling in comparison. “You’ve suffered long enough.”

“You’re not even going to ask if I want that?”

“You just said you didn’t like the food,” Vincent said, adjusting his cuffs. “So I’ll make something better.”

Ryo eyed him warily, like one might eye a wild animal that was far too comfortable. “You’re actually serious.”

“Of course,” Vincent replied with a small shrug. “I always am.”

…

Outside, the sky was a bruised, swollen gray. Rain-laden clouds hung heavy above the street, casting everything in that pre-storm stillness where the world felt like it was holding its breath.

Ryo shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as they stood outside the café. Vincent’s sleek black car—always the same one—waited at the curb like a shadow. Even his vehicle looked expensive enough to have an opinion.

“You’re sure you won’t ride with me?” Vincent asked, voice low, casual.

Ryo stiffened slightly. He hated being seen leaving the café with his boss , of all people. Getting into his car would feel... suggestive. A little too much like something it wasn’t. Or maybe something it was, but Ryo wasn’t ready to admit that.

“I’ll walk,” he said quickly, eyes on the ground.

Vincent tilted his head. “It’s going to rain.”

“Then I’ll get wet.”

Vincent gave him a look, patient and unreadable. But he didn’t argue.

“Text me when you get home.”

Ryo pretended not to hear that part as he turned away. That felt too intimate—something a lover would say, not a coworker.

…

It started raining five minutes later.

Not a drizzle—a downpour. The kind of storm that came down in sheets, like the sky was furious. Thick, heavy drops soaked Ryo through within seconds. He didn’t bother running. It was too late, and he was too tired.

By the time he stumbled into his apartment on the fourth floor, every joint ached. Rain clung to him, clinging like second skin. The hot shower didn’t help. Neither did the change of clothes or the thick blanket he wrapped around himself. His head buzzed with heat and pressure, limbs trembling from something more than cold.

He laid in bed, shivering, staring up at the ceiling. Everything hurts.

His hand reached blindly for his phone.

It made sense, sort of. His next-door neighbor was also Japanese—comforting in a way he couldn’t explain, like a tether to something familiar. Ryo had never asked for his name. Even if they were beside each other when boarding for France. He just knew the guy worked in the same building, nodded at him in the elevator sometimes. He was his superior. 

His fingers hesitated, hovering over the screen. Then:

[Ryo]: ごめん。君は私の同僚だよね？病気なの。隣に住んでいるんだよね？ (hey sorry. You’re my coworker right? I'm sick. You live next to me right?)

[Ryo]: 薬を買ってきてくれる？返すから。(can u get meds? i’ll pay you back)

The reply came almost instantly.

[Nakamura]: ああ、そうだ。(oh. yeah. I am.)
[Nakamura]: 心配しないで。カバーしてもらいました (no worries. got u)

Ryo exhaled. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. He finally closed his eyes and let the exhaustion take him.

…

Vincent Fabron was, for once, shopping with someone else in mind.

He moved down the aisle with the same unhurried grace he applied to everything—sleeves rolled up just enough, tie loosened but still knotted, posture relaxed. His cart was half-filled: shallots, miso paste, ginger, herbs. He stood in front of the poultry fridge, considering the merits of bone-in versus boneless chicken.

He was lost in thought when someone called out, “Mr. Fabron?”

He turned.

One of the Japanese associates from the office. Polite, wiry, glasses. Nakamura.

Vincent nodded once. “Bonsoir.”

Nakamura smiled, clearly surprised. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Shopping for… yourself?”

Vincent gave a small, guarded smile. “Someone else. A rare indulgence.”

Nakamura peered into the cart. “Looks like you’re making something fancy.”

“I intend to cook.”

“Oh?” A beat passed. “For someone special?”

Vincent met his eyes, calm and direct. “Something like that.”

Nakamura blinked. “She’s lucky.”

A beat of silence.

Vincent’s smile didn’t shift. “Nice to see you. But I have groceries to finish.”

“Right, right—of course,” Nakamura said with a nod. “See you tomorrow.”

…

The knock came just as Ryo was dragging himself to the door, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cocoon.

Nakamura stood there, holding a plastic bag filled with medicine, bottled tea, and a box of tissues.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at Ryo’s state. “ひどい顔をしているね。”(You look like hell)

“Thanks,” Ryo mumbled, reaching for the bag. “お返しさせてください.” (Lemme pay you back—)

“ご心配なく”(Don’t worry about it,) Nakamura said, waving it off. “ただ治したほうがいいよ” (Just get better, yeah?)

Ryo still shoved a crumpled bill into his hand. “No debt.”

They were mid-exchange, awkwardly shifting in the narrow hallway, when another knock echoed through the apartment.

They both froze.

Ryo opened the door—

And Vincent Fabron stood on the other side.

Two grocery bags in one arm, damp from the rain but composed as ever. He looked absurd there, like some strange mirage, completely out of place in the dimly lit, run-down hallway.

Vincent blinked.

Nakamura blinked.

“…Oh,” Nakamura said softly. “ ...Oh .”

An awkward silence bloomed in the narrow space. Ryo cleared his throat. Vincent, meanwhile, was frustratingly composed—still in his coat, still holding the groceries, looking like a goddamn movie character who’d just wandered into the wrong set.

“Bonsoir,” Vincent greeted, as smooth as silk.

Something clicked behind Nakamura’s eyes. Realization bloomed. A few puzzle pieces slid neatly into place.

“I—uh. I should go,” he said quickly, bowing. “Get well soon, Kiritani-san!”

Ryo shut the door, exhaled a groan, and leaned against it. 

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You didn’t text me,” Vincent replied, slipping off his coat and setting the groceries down with ease.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

Ryo huffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Vincent ignored the jab, already making his way into the small kitchen like he belonged there. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“No.”

“Good.”

…

Ryo sat on the kitchen counter with a blanket draped over his shoulders like a makeshift shawl. His hair was still damp from the shower, plastered to his forehead in dark, uneven tufts. His skin had lost most of its color, save for the flushed red creeping up his cheeks—and not entirely from the fever.

He swung his legs slightly where they hung off the edge of the counter, toes just brushing the cabinet below. His chin rested in one hand, the other tugging the blanket closer as he watched Vincent move around the kitchen with practiced ease.

“I’m not really hungry,” Ryo murmured, voice scratchy, thick with exhaustion. “I’m too sick to eat.”

Vincent didn’t answer right away. He approached slowly, leaned both arms on the counter between them, and bent forward—his face suddenly much too close. Ryo froze. Vincent’s eyes searched his, then swept upward as he pressed the back of his hand to Ryo’s forehead, testing the heat.

“You are burning up,” Vincent said softly.

They were close enough now that Ryo could see the flecks of gold in Vincent’s irises, warm against the soft light of the kitchen. His breath caught, throat tightening. The moment stretched—quiet, loaded. Not clinical. Not professional. Not at all how your boss should be looking at you.

Vincent’s hand lingered, just a second too long, before pulling away.

“You need rest. I’ll file the leave under sick days,” he said. “Paid, of course.”

Ryo blinked slowly. “You’re being… very generous.”

“You’re very ill.”

“That doesn’t usually matter to most people.”

Vincent’s expression didn’t change. He reached up to brush a piece of Ryo’s hair aside with deliberate care before turning back to the grocery bags. “Well. I’m not most people.”

Ryo swallowed thickly. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice quieter now. “Really.”

The only reply was the sound of rustling plastic and the dull clatter of produce against the kitchen counter.

Vincent rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, revealing precisely toned and muscled forearms and a wristwatch that looked too expensive for the countertop it rested on. He moved like someone who had done this before—selecting a sharp knife from the rack, washing the vegetables with a gentle rhythm under the tap. Carrots. Celery. Onion. Garlic. Ginger. Miso. A base built to heal.

Ryo watched him, barely breathing, as the knife began its rhythmic chop. The thunk-thunk-thunk of steel against wood was oddly comforting. Vincent didn’t glance up once—his brow furrowed in concentration, the faintest crease between his brows. There was something absurdly elegant about it. Like he was conducting a symphony, not making soup.

And Ryo… was useless. Feverish and half out of it. Staring openly at his boss like some lovesick idiot. His arms felt too heavy to lift. His eyes kept trying to close.

But he couldn’t stop watching.

What was this between them?

Vincent wasn’t just helping because he was kind. Or maybe he was. But kindness from someone like Vincent Fabron felt too intentional. Too exact. There was a difference between pity and presence. Vincent had chosen to be here. He wanted to be here. And that meant something.

Ryo let his cheek fall against his palm, eyes fluttering as he zoned out again, lulled by the sizzling garlic now hitting the pan. The whole kitchen was starting to smell like something comforting and rich. Something nostalgic, even though Ryo couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him.

He peeked at Vincent again. His back was to him now. He was stirring something gently, murmuring to himself in French under his breath. His tie swung slightly with each movement. His sleeves were damp. His silhouette framed by the stove light made Ryo’s chest ache in a place he didn’t know could hurt.

It wasn’t just attraction. Or illness. It was the kind of aching warmth that made you feel safe and seen and startled all at once.

Ryo shifted slightly, shivering despite the blanket. Vincent must’ve noticed—he turned, walked over with a spoon, and blew on it before offering a taste.

“Try,” he said gently.

Ryo blinked, dazed. “Already?”

“It’s just the broth.”

Ryo let him feed him a spoonful. Warm. Light. A little salty. He swallowed, blinking again, eyes wide.

Vincent looked at him, expectant.

“…It’s good,” Ryo rasped. “Really good.”

Vincent only smiled, a quiet sort of triumph in the curve of his mouth, before turning back to finish the rest. Soup still simmering, carrots now added, noodles on standby, scallions being sliced thin for garnish.

Ryo watched him the whole time, half-asleep, heart beating just a little too fast—and not because of the fever.

…

By the time Vincent set the steaming bowls on the table, Ryo had moved from the counter to a chair, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. The soup looked like it came from a restaurant—not a salaryman's apartment kitchen. Silken tofu cubes floating beside scallions and carrots sliced into thin ribbons. Ginger curled in the center like a whisper of heat. The steam curled up like incense.

Ryo stared down at his bowl for a beat too long, then up at Vincent, who sat across from him—elegant as ever, but slightly softer in the kitchen light. His sleeves were still rolled up. His tie hung loose. His forearms were freckled with barely visible drops of broth, like he’d leaned too close to stir.

“This is domestic as hell,” Ryo said, spoon in hand.

Vincent gave a small laugh. “Would you prefer it served with the barrel of a gun?”

“Honestly? Little bit,” Ryo mumbled, then took his first bite.

It was the kind of warm that went straight to the ribs. Not just flavor, but intention. Someone made this for you. That kind of warmth.

The clinking of spoons was the only sound for a while. Not uncomfortable. Just… something filling the air.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ryo said after a few minutes, eyes on his bowl. “But you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” Vincent replied without missing a beat.

“Then why did you?”

There was a pause. A longer one this time. Vincent took his time setting down his spoon. He looked up, then leaned forward slightly, folding his hands under his chin. The air thickened between them like fog.

“You’re important to me,” Vincent said, voice quieter now. “And not just because of work.”

Ryo’s heart skipped.

“Right,” he said, a little too fast. “I just—wanted to be sure I wasn’t reading things wrong.”

Vincent’s lips parted like he was about to say something. Then he stopped. His gaze dropped to the table, his hands flexed slightly where they rested.

“What is this?” Ryo asked softly.

And it wasn’t sarcastic this time. Not flippant or teasing. His tone was earnest. Fragile. The spoon trembled slightly in his fingers.

Vincent hesitated. Truly, visibly hesitated.

His eyes met Ryo’s, and something flickered in them—something unguarded. The calm, polished exterior gave way just a little. Just enough to show the wanting beneath.

He didn’t answer.

But he leaned forward.

And Ryo didn’t move away.

Their hands were so close on the table now, barely an inch apart. The steam between them blurred the edges of the bowls. The city lights outside had faded into nothing but a glow behind the window, and all Ryo could focus on was how quiet it was in the apartment. How full his chest felt. How everything narrowed to Vincent’s eyes flickering to his lips, then back again.

They were so close now. Just a breath away.

Then Vincent paused. Drew in a breath.

And pulled back.

The space between them widened again, instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost too quickly. “You’re not feeling well.”

Ryo blinked. Realization caught up to him like cold water on the spine.

He coughed.

Violently.

Not convincingly.

Vincent narrowed his eyes. “You’re faking.”

“Am not,” Ryo rasped between wheezes. “I’m fragile. I could die at any moment.”

“Then stop trying to kiss me and eat your soup.”

Ryo flushed deep red and glared at his bowl. “I wasn’t trying to kiss you. You were the one—” He cut himself off and slurped loudly just to end the sentence.

Vincent chuckled. Low. Throatier than it should’ve been. He leaned back in his chair and resumed eating, but there was still that look in his eyes. Like something was unfinished. Like it had taken effort to pull away.

And across the table, Ryo kept glancing up through his lashes, half-daring Vincent to do it again.

Neither of them said what they were thinking.

But the space between them crackled—quiet, heavy, waiting.

…

After the dishes were cleared and the kitchen hummed with the soft warmth of leftovers and candlelight, Vincent poured two cups of tea. Ginger, lemon, and honey. Something to soothe.

Ryo sat curled on the couch now, legs tucked beneath him, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders like armor. The fever had ebbed a little, leaving behind a kind of dreamy fog. He felt distant from his own skin—lightheaded and heavy all at once.

Vincent handed him the mug without a word, fingers brushing over Ryo’s just a little too long. Ryo didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He just stared at the tea like it might give him the answers he didn’t know how to ask for.

Vincent settled into the armchair across from him. He didn’t speak either. For once, silence wasn’t awkward. It just… was .

Ryo lifted the mug to his lips. The heat steadied his hands. Barely.

He looked up. Met Vincent’s gaze. Again.

It was still there. That thing between them. The thing no one had named yet, but which refused to leave the room. Ryo’s fingers curled tighter around the ceramic.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said softly.

Vincent blinked. “When?”

Ryo shifted. “Earlier. At dinner. When I asked what this is.”

A long silence stretched.

Vincent’s expression didn’t change much—but his jaw tensed. His fingers drummed once against the side of his own mug, then stopped.

“I’m not sure it’s something we can define,” he said eventually.

“That’s a cop-out.”

Vincent’s lips quirked. “Perhaps.”

“Try anyway.”

Vincent looked down at his tea. For once, his voice lost that polished, perfectly modulated smoothness. It was quieter now. Rougher around the edges.

“I didn’t plan for this,” he said. He visibly hesitated. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but he shut it immediately.

"For what?” Ryo asked, even though he already knew.

Vincent raised his eyes slowly. They were tired. Beautiful. Golden. Full of something that looked a lot like restraint.

“Caring. Wanting. Crossing lines.”

Ryo’s throat felt tight. “You already crossed them.”

“I know.”

They stared at each other.

No storm outside now. Just the quiet hush of a city deep into night. Just two mugs of cooling tea and the ache of possibility.

Chapter Text

Ryo spent the next two days in bed, his body aching in that dull, forgettable way that didn’t scream serious , but felt just bad enough to keep him grounded under the covers. The fever came and went like a ghost—never high enough to alarm, just enough to make movement irritating and his appetite nonexistent. The only thing that lingered—oddly comforting—was the scent on the blanket he’d worn while Vincent was cooking for him. A subtle trail of sandalwood and bergamot. Vincent’s cologne.

He hated how it kept him sane.

How he curled around it like it was a presence.

How it made his fever dreams murmur in French.

Vincent didn’t crowd him. Just a few texts a day.

Vincent: Got any appetite yet?
Vincent: Drink water. Not just coffee.
Vincent: Call me if your fever gets worse. I mean it.

They were simple, spaced out, responsible. But underneath every one was something unsaid. Ryo read them more than once. Sometimes, when the apartment was too quiet, he imagined Vincent’s voice saying them instead. On the second night, his phone buzzed:

Vincent: I left groceries at your door. Soup ingredients.
Vincent: I’ll cook for you again. When you’re feeling up to it.
Vincent: Don’t die. That’s an order.

Ryo didn’t reply. Just stared at the screen with his cheeks burning hotter than his temperature. He buried his face in a Vincent-scented blanket and fell asleep like that.

…

The office felt colder on Mondays. It’s been 5 days since the incident. 5 days since Ryo went facefirst recklessly into the rain and got sick. 

Maybe it was the fluorescent lighting. Maybe it was the hangover of too many thoughts from the weekend. Or maybe it was just him —Ryo—dragging himself back into routine after another unpredictable Wednesday with a man who made everything feel... less routine.

He still hadn’t figured Vincent out.

Not after the Eiffel Tower. Not after the Sunday city walk. Not after the dinner that was definitely not a date, even if it had all the signs of one. Not after he cooked for him when he was sick. Not even after he had admitted that Ryo was different . Not even after they almost kissed , for god's sake.

He’d gone to bed thinking about Vincent’s laugh.

Worse, he’d woken up thinking about it.

Now he was staring blankly at a spreadsheet that hadn’t changed in thirty minutes.

“お前、大丈夫か？” ("You okay?")

The voice jolted him. Ryo looked up to see Nakamura (his coworker whose name he finally learned after months of small talk just because he needed some medicine) leaning against the edge of his desk, paper cup in hand, tie already loosened despite it being barely past ten.

Nakamura was older. An exceptional transfer from the Tokyo office like Ryo—straight-laced, dependable, good at spotting things others missed. The kind of guy who noticed when a team member skipped lunch or showed up earlier than usual three days in a row.

Ryo straightened in his chair. "元気です。" (“I’m fine.”)

"本当にそう？" (“You sure?”) Nakamura sipped his coffee, giving him a long look. “あなたは…気が散っていました.” (“You’ve been… distracted.”)

Ryo frowned. “仕事中だよ.” (“I'm working.”)

“なるほど” (“Right.”) A pause. “そしてファブロンさんは？” (“And you and Fabron-san?”)

Ryo blinked. “What?”

Nakamura tilted his head slightly, his tone casual—but not too casual. ”最近、君が彼と一緒にいるのをよく見かけるよ。会議はね。でも…会議以外の時もね” (“I’ve seen you with him lately. A lot. Meetings, yes. But also... not meetings.”)

Ryo’s fingers tapped the edge of the desk. “彼は私の上司です.” (“He’s my supervisor.”)

「はいはい、そうですね〜。私も“もちろん”体調悪い時は上司にご飯作ってもらってますよ〜。」(Mm sure. I 'definitely' also have my boss cook food for me when I'm sick)

Nakamura said with sarcasm written all over his face. Speaking in Japanese as to keep it private and not expose Ryo.

Ryo glared at him. “なに、それ、遠回しに何か言ってる？” ("What, are you indirectly trying to say something?")

“監視する必要はありません。ここでは誰もが何かに気づいています。特に彼のこととなると.” (“I don’t have to. People notice things here. Especially when it comes to him .”)

That earned a sharper look from Ryo. “ちょっと、それどういう意味?” (“What’s that supposed to mean?”)

Nakamura leaned in a bit, lowering his voice. “ただ言ってるだけなんだけど…気をつけて。ファブロンは魅力的だし、頭もいいし、都合がいいときには人を特別扱いするのが上手いんだ。”(“I’m just saying… be careful. Fabron-san’s charming. Smart. And very good at making people feel special when it suits him.”)

“I didn’t say he wasn—” He cut himself off.

“You didn’t have to.” Nakamura’s eyes were steady now. “忘れないでくれ、リョウ。俺たちはここの客なんだ。君も俺も。それを忘れた途端、誰かが思い出させてくれるよ.” (“Just remember, Ryo. We’re guests here. You and me. The minute you forget that, someone will remind you.”)

Ryo clenched his jaw. “私がプロ意識がないと思っているのか？” (“You think I’m being unprofessional?”)

“あなたが見られているように思います.” (“I think you’re being seen.”) He stepped back, the warning quiet but firm. “And he’s not the one they’ll blame if things go wrong.”

There was a silence.

Ryo didn’t respond. Not at first.

“Just warning you. Returning the favour if you will.”

Right, Nakamura had owed him a favour from that night he was tireless and sleepy. Now he was returning the favour by cautioning Ryo, before it was too late.

He watched Nakamura walk away, watched him melt back into the safe rhythm of the office—reports, emails, polite greetings in two languages.

The spreadsheet still stared back at him.

But the numbers had started to blur.

He thought about the way Vincent said his name now. How it rolled softer, more personal. He thought about the way Vincent had looked at him that night, like Ryo was more than just a name on a contract.

He thought about how stupid that was.

Because Nakamura was right.

This wasn’t Tokyo.

And Vincent Fabron wasn’t just anyone.

He was power wrapped in a smile. He was influence with polished shoes. He was the kind of man who got what he wanted—without needing to say what he wanted.

And Ryo?

Ryo didn’t even know which part of himself was answering the calls. After all, he was just an employee. Fabron is merely playing with him for entertainment.

…

He gets to the office earlier than usual after lunch break. Doesn’t wait for Fabron. Doesn’t pass by his office. Just buries himself in reports, in edits, in translations.

At around 12:30 a.m., he goes to grab coffee from the office lounge.

And that’s when he sees it.

Through the window of the conference room, Élodie is standing in front of Vincent with a velvet box in her hands.

A ring.

He freezes.

Vincent is seated, frowning—but he hasn’t moved. He’s listening. Engaged. Looking her in the eyes.

Ryo turns around and walks away.

Fast. Too fast. His shoes clicking against the hallway tile like thunder.

He doesn’t know what this feeling is—just that it burns.

…

Vincent finds him in the stairwell fifteen minutes later.

“Ryo—”

Ryo doesn’t stop walking.

“ Ryo. ” His voice is sharper now. “ Hey— ”

“I’m busy,” Ryo mutters, brushing past him.

Vincent reaches out and grabs his arm.

Ryo yanks away like he’s been burned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Vincent says, more confused than angry.

“You tell me,” Ryo snaps. “Or no— tell your fiancée. ”

“My—?”

“That woman who won’t leave you alone,” he spits. “You should marry her already. Seems like she’s already picked out the ring.”

“Is that what this is about?”

Ryo tries to walk again, but Vincent blocks the stairs.

“Ryo,” he says, quieter now. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t say yes either.”

“You didn’t say anything. ”

Vincent looks at him.

“I was trying to be careful,” he murmurs. “She’s tied to our company’s biggest funders. It’s delicate. But I didn’t accept anything. And I’m not going to.”

Ryo looks away.

“I was going to tell her this morning that I’m not interested in her,” Vincent adds. “But then you stormed out like I’d just slapped your grandmother.”

“…You don’t get it.”

“Then make me understand.”

Ryo’s fists clench at his sides. “I got warned about people like you.”

Vincent blinks. “...People like me?”

“Foreigners with power. People who… offer you something soft and make you think it’s real.”

Silence.

“I’m not trying to trick you, Ryo.”

Ryo doesn’t believe him.

Or maybe he wants to, but he’s scared of what it means if he does.

So he says nothing.

Just walks down the stairs and out the door.

For the first time— he’s the one leaving Fabron behind.

…

Vincent Fabron wasn’t used to rejection. He wasn’t used to the twisting, sour ache of heartache. People didn’t turn him down — they bowed, they served, they handed over their trust and their futures without hesitation. That was the natural order. So why, in God’s name, was a seemingly insignificant employee — who shouldn’t even be here — not succumbing to him?

He knew nothing and everything about Ryo all at once, like a man trapped in a fever dream he couldn’t shake. And it was making him feel… deranged. Over a man who refused to acknowledge the weight of the Fabron name.

So he sat alone in his office. A place of immaculate gold trim and pristine white surfaces, polished to perfection. Every inch spoke of wealth and control. Yet, to him, it felt hollow. There was something missing here. Or rather, someone .

Vincent had suspected it for years: he had attachment issues. He had always been unwilling to let go of sentimental things, even as a boy. His mother’s autobiography, the one she wrote before she vanished from his life, had followed him from city to city. He claimed it was for inspiration, but the truth was simpler — it was a way to keep her close.

He had never really known her smile, the way her eyes would light up, the creases at the corners of her mouth when she spoke about nothing at all. She had been joy incarnate, a force of warmth in a house ruled by coldness. When she was gone, his father’s mental health crumbled, and in his grief, he found a scapegoat in his own son.

Why blame a child when your wife abandons you for freedom? His father never struck her, but his words had been sharper than any slap.

He could still remember the night she asked him to run away with her. He’d sat beside her while she wrote in her journal — words that would later appear in her published autobiography — his head resting on her lap as she silently cried, her fingers combing through his hair.

"Je ne veux pas te quitter, Vin." ( I don’t want to leave you, Vin.)

But the night before, he had overheard his father’s roar through the walls: "Si tu pars, n'ose pas emmener MON enfant avec toi!" (If you leave, don’t you dare take MY child with you!)

In her final weeks in that house, he learned her voice by heart, her scent like faint lavender oil and paint thinner. And he learned that she, too, had been an artist — a creator.

He had shown signs early. At five years old, he broke one of her clay mugs. He’d pieced it back together in secret, painting a thin gold line along the crack to hide it. She had known immediately, of course — she’d made the mug herself. Instead of scolding him, she’d knelt down, held the mended mug in her hands, and told him never to stop creating.

He still had that mug. It sat now on his desk, chipped but proud, a small rebellion against the sterility of the gold-and-white room.

She had left, and never came back. His father had withdrawn completely, drowning himself in the company that Vincent would one day inherit. The last thing she had ever painted was still etched into his mind: a gold-silhouetted man surrounded by a burst of purple, pink, and faint white. Her favorite colors — or so he imagined.

Vincent had been halfway through a dissociation. When the faint hum of his office lights flickered, shadows trembled against the glass walls. His hands stilled over the mug in front of him—a weathered, imperfect clay thing painted in uneven earthy swirls.

He didn’t even notice the noise. He was picturing the painting, eyes closed, when the sharp, metallic WHOOSH tore through the silence.

His eyes flew open. A man — no, himself — stumbled forward onto the carpet in front of his desk.

Vincent’s chair scraped back violently. His breath caught. The man raised his head.

Same face. Same sharp features. Same voice when he finally spoke.

Vincent’s heart slammed against his ribs. He shouted — half in horror, half in disbelief — cursing himself that the office was soundproof.

The stranger straightened, wiped blood from his mouth, and locked eyes with him. They both froze. One man full of confusion and fear. The other wearing an expression of quiet calculation.

"Salut, mon frère d'une autre terre." (Hello, my brother from another land. )

Vincent’s voice cracked into a demand: "QU'EST-CE QUE ÇA VEUT DIRE ? QU'EST-CE QUE TU ES ? QUI ES-TU ? SORTEZ." (What does that mean? What are you? Who are you? Get out.)

The man chuckled low in his throat.

"Victor Fabron. Ton reflet… venu d’une autre Terre. Considère-toi honoré." (Victor Fabron. Your reflection… from another Earth. Consider yourself honored.)

Vincent stared. Same features, same smirk, but a different name. A different presence. Victor carried himself like a man who already knew every move Vincent would make.

Vincent’s gaze dropped to the object at Victor’s feet. It glowed faintly, gold light bleeding into the carpet fibers — a compact, intricate machine, no taller than his ankle, yet powerful enough to bend reality.

Victor tilted his head. “I assume you’re observing and making your own conclusions. I won’t reveal much — not yet. Just think of me as… a better you. From an advanced Earth.”

Vincent opened his mouth, but hesitation stole his words. Victor’s smirk deepened.

“You’re in my office,” he said evenly, regaining his composure. “And unless I’m hallucinating, you are also… me.”

Victor’s smirk widened just slightly, as though he’d found this version of himself predictable.
“Correct. And you… are slower to react than I expected.”

Vincent’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the warped air still shimmering behind him. “You tore a hole through space-time to insult my reflexes?”

“Not just that,” The double replied, stepping forward without hesitation. He walked like he owned the floor beneath them. “I came to offer you something. A partnership.”

Vincent’s fingers loosened on the mug. He set it down carefully—too carefully—so it wouldn’t shatter.

“And why,” he asked, “would I need to work with someone who appears uninvited in my office, wearing my face?”

The clone’s eyes swept the room, noting the cold corporate minimalism, the untouched drafting table in the corner, the blueprints shoved under paperwork. Familiarity stirred within him.

“Because,” he said finally, “I know you. I know the part of you that’s dying here. I know what it feels like to have ideas that could change everything—buried under contracts, obligations, and… feelings you don’t dare acknowledge.”

The air between them seemed heavier for a moment, as though Victor had deliberately stepped onto a pressure point.

Vincent didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. “And if I refuse?”

The doppelganger’s smirk didn’t fade. “Then you keep pretending. Keep playing the loyal executive until there’s nothing left of you but what they need you to be.” He paused, leaning closer, his voice dropping just enough to cut deep. “But I suspect you’ve already started breaking your own rules. Especially where he’s concerned.”

Vincent’s breath caught, but his face remained unreadable. Instead, he reached again for the clay mug, letting its familiar weight anchor him. The steam from the coffee curled upward, catching the faint shimmer of the still-open rift.

Victor straightened, his smile returning to something sharper. “Think about it,” he said. “We could build something together. Something neither of our worlds has ever seen.”

And with that, he stepped back into the distortion, the air folding in on itself until it was gone—leaving Vincent standing alone in the quiet hum of his office, staring into the dark swirl of his coffee, the warmth of his mother’s mug seeping into his hands.

…

Vincent still did his job perfectly—deadlines met, figures accurate, presentations sharp enough to cut glass—but his charm had gone mechanical. Compliments were delivered with a precision that felt rehearsed, smiles arrived just a fraction too late, and his once-effortless wit now sounded like a man remembering how to play a role he’d long since grown tired of. The team noticed, of course. A few whispered over lunch that he must be exhausted. Others thought perhaps he was finally burning out. No one suspected the truth.

The real reason was far stranger than fatigue. He was still reeling from what had happened days ago—still trying to make sense of standing in his own office and coming face to face with a man who looked exactly like him. A clone, though not in the literal, scientific sense. A version of himself from another Earth.

He had always suspected there might be other worlds. The thought had brushed against him in late-night readings and idle, wine-fueled musings. But another Earth existing within the same universe? That was something he’d once dismissed as impossible. And yet, there he’d been—alive, breathing, smirking as if the impossible was nothing more than Tuesday’s news—and offering him a partnership.

Vincent hadn’t answered yet.

In the meantime, life became a minefield of reminders. He avoided certain streets because they reminded him too much of walking home with Ryo on quiet evenings, their conversations lingering like cigarette smoke in the air. He never opened the left side of the wardrobe; it still carried the faint ghost of Ryo’s cologne, a scent so precise in its evocation it made his chest ache.

There was a half-written email to Ryo sitting in his drafts folder. Every day, Vincent opened it, typed a few hesitant words—something light, or maybe something raw—then deleted them, as if undoing them could undo the urge.

Even the city conspired against him. The café, the same one where he had run into Ryo the first morning Ryo started work, froze him mid-step until he found himself standing still among strangers, throat tight. He hadn’t been coming to ‘his’ cafe as often anymore.

Another time, the sound of a stranger’s laugh—too close to Ryo’s—made him turn his head instinctively. He left the shop without buying anything.

At night, he told himself it was better this way. Better to stay alone. Better to keep his heart locked up and his life tidy. Then, in the next breath, he was pouring another glass of wine to drown the silence.

The silence never drowned.

In the end, perhaps to keep from collapsing into the past, he opened the file his clone had left him. It was all there: blueprints, possibilities, the lure of creation. He stared at it for a long time, the wine cooling in his hand. Then he decided—he would take him up on the partnership. If nothing else, it would be a distraction. And maybe, in working with another version of himself, he could forget just how much of himself Ryo had taken with him.

…

Ryo still worked in the same building, but it felt like he existed in a different world.

One where Vincent Fabron was a ghost he couldn’t look at directly, because if he did, the whole fragile thing holding him together might shatter.

He avoided the man like he might avoid a fire—wide arcs around danger, careful not to even let the heat brush his skin.

No lingering in common areas. No riding the elevators. No pausing in the lobby. 

He used the emergency exit every evening, taking the stairs down until his legs ached. The shorter way home became the longer way—blocks added to his commute just to keep his paths from crossing Vincent’s.

He even changed his apartment locks. Just in case.

It wasn’t that Vincent had ever come uninvited often—but Ryo had once lived in the comfort of knowing he could . That at any moment, he might hear a familiar knock, followed by a low, teasing voice calling his name.

Now, he made sure that couldn’t happen. And yet, the hallway stayed quiet. Vincent didn’t show. Not anymore.

Part of Ryo had been waiting for the chase. For Vincent to come looking, to demand his attention the way he always did when he wanted something. But the days stretched on, and nothing came.

Maybe he really had married Élodie. Maybe Ryo had been nothing more than a beautifully timed detour.

Every Wednesday was the worst—board meeting days. The one day Vincent was guaranteed to be in the office from morning until night. Now that they didn’t have ‘mandatory lunch times’ that felt more like dates, Vincent was always at the office. Burying himself in work. 

Ryo would dread the journey in, dread the journey out, counting each step between himself and the chance of seeing him.

But despite his careful routes, there were close calls.
Once, Ryo had just stepped into the bathroom when he heard Vincent’s voice outside the door.
A casual word to someone in the hallway, then the sound of his shoes on tile.

The pause. The sharp inhale. And then—muttered curse under his breath. He probably thought he was imagining things.

Ryo stayed in the stall, one hand clamped over his mouth, not daring to breathe. He could hear his own heartbeat more clearly than Vincent’s retreating footsteps.

After that, he got even more careful. Checking every corner before walking into a hallway. Keeping other coworkers between them like human shields if he caught a glimpse of Fabron at the far end of the floor.

Switching his seat with Nakamura—something his manager approved without question.
Some days he left early, just to avoid the risk.

A month left. That was all. One more month until his contract in France ended and he could return to Tokyo. He counted the days, the hours, the minutes.

He missed home—the noise, the smells, the comfort of a language that didn’t feel foreign in his mouth. 

But he didn’t miss it as much as he missed Vincent’s voice. That deep, smooth sound that could draw him in from across a crowded room. The same voice he now hid from like it might burn him alive.

…

The week before the Japanese team’s departure, Fabron announced a “special send-off.” A karaoke night.

He’d stood at the head of the conference table during the morning briefing, all charm and authority, saying something about how karaoke was such a staple in Japanese culture, and that it would be “a shame if our French staff didn’t get to experience it properly.”
The way he framed it, it sounded like a casual team-bonding event. Something lighthearted, harmless.

Ryo didn’t buy it. Karaoke wasn’t a requirement for business. It was Vincent Fabron—he always had a reason beneath the reason.

Still, Ryo had no idea this one was for him. A last… what? Interaction? Performance? Memory? He couldn’t guess.

Ten people were going:
Nakamura, Ryo, and two other Japanese hires whose roles Ryo never fully understood. Three French staff from Ryo’s own department. Two more French employees who seemed tight with the other Japanese guys. And, of course—Vincent Fabron himself.

Ryo had been invited —but it was clear this was one of those invitations that wasn’t optional. When he hinted at skipping, Nakamura only laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

“We’re the visitors here. The least we can do is show up to one karaoke night. It won’t be too bad,” he said.

Ryo reluctantly agreed, on one condition: Nakamura would stick by him all night. Nakamura nodded without hesitation.

But when they arrived, things unraveled quickly. Ryo claimed a seat in the farthest corner, nursing his drink, observing rather than participating.

Nakamura—so much for his promise—turned into a loud, animated presence. The man sang like his life depended on it, his voice hoarse but full of theatrical passion, gestures wild and expressive.

Ryo found himself wondering if Nakamura had a theater background.

The drinks flowed, loosening him up in spite of himself. His shirt clung tighter than he remembered, and the leather pants he’d thrown on in a hurry seemed, under the neon lights, more revealing than he’d intended. Definitely not standard “farewell party” attire.

Fabron was quiet. Too quiet. 

Every now and then, Ryo caught his gaze from across the room—just a flicker in the corner of his eye—but when Ryo looked back, the man’s attention would be firmly fixed on whoever was at the mic.

It was almost a relief when Nakamura and a few others started chanting his name, egging him onto the stage. Ryo tried shaking his head, but the chant only grew louder.

Then Fabron spoke.

“On my orders,” he said smoothly, eyes catching Ryo’s for a heartbeat too long, “Go sing.”

Something in Ryo stalled. He stared for a second more than was polite. Then, without a word, he stood and took the mic.

The backing track started— Heart Attack by Demi Lovato. He almost laughed. A pop song full of soaring high notes and breathless energy. A challenge.

But he’d been in a band once. He could do this.

And when he opened his mouth, he did .

Nakamura started his part first. “ Putting my defenses upppp 'Cause I don't wanna fall in loveee. If I ever did that, I think I'd have a heart attack .” The Japanese accent was evident while he sang a bit off-tune. The a’s sounding like u’s. 

The backtrack continued “atta-a-a-a-a-a-ack”

His part was next. Without hesitation, his voice cut clean through the chatter in the room, “ Never put my love out on the line, Never said yes to the right guy, Never had trouble getting what I want, But when it comes to you, I'm never good enough ” 

He was subtly eyeing his boss while singing this. Vincent’s eyes fluttered, his cheeks red. Not just from alcohol. 

Everyone was charmed by Ryo’s surprisingly stable voice. Clearly used to Nakamura’s.

The song continued on:

“When I don't caree

I can play 'em like a Ken doll

Won't wash my hair

Then make 'em bounce like a basketball” 

The lyrics flashed on the TV. The words highlighted in red to signify person 1’s (Nakamura) lines. Nakamura’s ‘ur’ sound was pronounced like the ‘ar’ sound. 

“But you make me wanna act like a girl

Painting my nails and wear high heels

Yes, you make me so nervous that I just can't hold your haaandddd” 

Ryo rolled out the last part, garnering cheers from the others. His voice is angelic and easy to follow. 

“You make me gloooooooooow

But I cover up, won't let it shooooooooow

So I'm putting my defenses up

'Cause I don't wanna fall in love”

Nakamura followed, his voice straining but pushing through. Ryo gave him a reassuring look. 

Vincent downed a shot.

The first chorus hit. The lyrics in blue indicate Ryo’s turn.

“If I ever did that, I think I'd have a heart attaaaaack

I think I'd have a heart attaaaaaaaaaaaaaack

Two of the French staff let out an impressed “Oooh” when he climbed into the higher range like it was nothing. 

I think I'd have a heart attack”

Each note is deliberate, powerful, and unshaken.

“Never break a sweat for the other guys

When you come around, I get paralyzed

And every time I try to be myself

It comes out wrong like a cry for help”

Nakamura sang beside him, struggling to match Ryo’s precision but still grinning, clearly proud. This part of the song was more stable. Nakamura relaxed his shoulders. 

“It's just not fair

Pain's more trouble than love is worth

I gasp for aaaaaiir

It feels so good, but you know it hurts”

Ryo’s body shifted towards a specific Frenchman in the room and made daring eye contact with him.

“But you make me wanna act like a girl

Painting my nails and wear perfume for you

Make me so nervous that I just can't hold your haaaaaand”

Nakamura closed his eyes and furrowed his brows, clutching his invisible pearls, as he sang his heart out. He was over-extending his last note. 

“You make me glooooooow

But I cover up, won't let it shooooooow”

Ryo’s voice rang out smoothly. Every individual in the room danced along.

“So I'm putting my defenses up

'Cause I don't wanna fall in love”

Nakamura was evidently out of breath.

“If I ever did that, I think I'd have a heart attaaaaaack”

Ryo kept his eyes on Nakamura, reassuring him that he would hit the next note.

“I think I'd have a heart attaaaack

I think I'd have a heart attack”

Nakamura’s voice wavered. He looked at Ryo, hesitantly before gesturing that he would tap out. He unplugged his mic and went to sit.

Ryo didn’t let that stop him for the bridge.

Most of the room had their phones out, recording.

“The feelings got lost in my lungs

They're burning, I'd rather be numb

And there's no one else to blame

So scared, I take off, and I run

I'm flying too close to the sun

And I burst into flaaaaaaa-flaaaaaaaa-flaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaames”

Every high note landed. Every run felt effortless.

Fabron wasn’t hiding his reaction anymore. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth, his eyes fixed squarely on Ryo like he was committing the moment to memory.

Ryo didn’t look back at him after that. He couldn’t.

“You make me glow

But I cover up, won't let it shooooooow

So I'm putting my defenses up

'Cause I don't wanna fall in love

If I ever did that, I think I'd have a heart aattaaaaaaaaaack

I think I'd have a heart attaaaaaaack (heart attack)

I think I'd have a heart attack-taaaaaaaaaaack

I think I'd have a heart attaaaaaaaaaaaaack

I think I'd have a heart attack”

The background music faded as Ryo put the mic down. The applause of everyone in the room echoed. The score on the screen said:

‘SCORE: 96 

Waouh ! Très bien!’ (Wow! Very Good!)

Ryo grinned wide when his score flashed on the screen — higher than he’d expected, even with the buzz of alcohol humming in his system. His Japanese coworkers burst into chatter, praising him in rapid Japanese, half-laughing in disbelief.

Before he could retreat to his seat, one of the tipsy French women piped up from the couch, “Monsieur Fabron! You should sing with Ryo!” Her voice was warm with wine and mischief. No one usually dared to call Vincent Fabron out like that in public.

Vincent didn’t scold her. He just shrugged once, the smallest tilt of his shoulders, as if considering. His eyes flicked to Ryo in a measured, deliberate glance — like a cat deciding whether to pounce. Only few knew about Vincent's background as a harpist. Everyone knew he was somewhat musically inclined. I mean, just look at him.

Ryo hesitated, mic in hand, then offered it to him. “I’ll carry,” he said softly, more a challenge than reassurance.

Vincent rose with unhurried grace, dusting off nonexistent lint from his jacket sleeve before taking the mic. The room’s neon lights shifted to match the song’s first low chords.

Nakamura leans back in his seat, arms crossed. “彼を見てみろ、これが今年のハイライトじゃないふりをしている。きっとカフスボタンを二度も磨いたんだろうな。”  (Look at him, he's pretending this isn't the highlight of his year. I bet he polished his cufflinks twice.)

The screen lit up with the opening chords, the blue and yellow neon lyrics bouncing in time with the pulsing beat. Vincent was already leaning lazily against the mic stand like he was born to be there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the microphone low. Ryo stood a step away, adjusting his grip on his own mic, trying not to look like he was bracing for impact.

Vincent’s eyes flicked sideways to Ryo, slow and deliberate, the corners of his mouth curling in that practiced, almost smug half-smile. He tilted his head just enough to catch the light across his sharp cheekbones.

Ryo cleared his throat, looking down at the lyrics scrolling on the screen — even though he knew the song — if only to avoid the weight of that gaze.

“Oh-oh, ooh

You've been runnin' 'round, runnin' 'round, runnin' 'round throwin' that dirt all on my name

'Cause you knew that I, knew that I, knew that I'd call you up

You've been going 'round, going 'round, going 'round every party in L.A.

'Cause you knew that I, knew that I, knew that I'd be at one, oh”

Vincent’s voice came smooth, rich, and maddeningly casual — not straining, not showing off, just letting the timbre carry. He didn’t belt it; he didn’t need to.

He sang like he was speaking directly to someone, low and intimate. His gaze never left Ryo, like the words were aimed squarely at him.

Ryo’s pulse spiked. The small group watching in the dimly lit private room let out a few approving noises — someone’s drink glass tapped against the table in time to the beat.

“I know that dress is karma, perfume regret

You got me thinking 'bout when you were mine, oh

And now I'm all up on ya, what you expect?

But you're not coming home with me tonight”

Ryo’s delivery was lighter, but steady, his voice carrying a different kind of edge — not playful, not entirely defensive, but toeing the line between challenge and compliance. He didn’t meet Vincent’s eyes until halfway through, but when he did, Vincent’s smirk deepened.

They leaned in just enough for their mics to almost touch.

“You just want attention, you don't want my heart

Maybe you just hate the thought of me with someone new”

Vincent lowered his tone, brushing against Ryo’s rhythm deliberately. 

“Yeah, you just want attention, I knew from the start

You're just making sure I'm never gettin' over you”

Ryo shifted, trying to stay in sync but feeling the pull of that proximity.

“You've been runnin' 'round, runnin' 'round, runnin' 'round throwing that dirt all on my name

'Cause you knew that I, knew that I, knew that I'd call you up”

Vincent sang it like he knew exactly what that meant for them.

“Baby, now that we're, now that we're, now that we're right here standing face-to-face

You already know, already know, already know that you won, oh”

Ryo’s voice was steady, firm, but the flicker in his gaze betrayed something warmer. 

“I know that dress is karma, perfume regret

You got me thinking 'bout when you were mine”

The song pushed forward. Vincent’s smirk deepened every time Ryo’s eyes flicked up and actually met his.

“And now I'm all up on ya, what you expect? 

But you're not coming home with me tonight”

The beat drops and shifts for the chorus.

“You just want attention, you don't want my heart

Maybe you just hate the thought of me with someone new”

When his solo part hit, Ryo found his footing — leaning into the mic with a little more boldness. His voice sharpened, more confident now, and when he glanced over his shoulder at Vincent, the look wasn’t shy anymore. It said: Two can play this game.

Vincent caught it, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to approval.

By the second chorus, the crowd’s caught it too— some swaying, some whispering like they’re witnessing something private. 

“Yeah, you just want attention, I knew from the start

You're just making sure I'm never gettin' over you, oh”

The bass thudded. Vincent stepped into Ryo’s space, closing the gap until their shoulders brushed during the call-and-response section.

“What are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?

(What are you doin'?)

What are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?

(What are you doin'?)

What are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?

(What are you doin'?)

What are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?”

The room reacted — a whistle from the corner, someone laughing in disbelief.  Nakamura slapped the table in delight.

“I know that dress is karma, perfume regret

You got me thinking 'bout when you were mine”

Ryo held his ground, singing his lines clear, not flinching even when Vincent leaned just enough to brush their shoulders together.

“And now I'm all up on ya, what’d you expect?

But you're not coming home with me tonight”

The final chorus was a push-and-pull — not a duet anymore, but a battle disguised as harmony. The beats slow, drops. They weren’t just singing now — they were performing at each other.

“You just want attention, you don't want my heart

Maybe you just hate the thought of me with someone new”

“Yeah, you just want attention, I knew from the start

You're just making sure I'm never gettin' over you, over youuuuuuu”

Vincent’s hand, still in his pocket, twitched once like he almost reached for Ryo’s mic. Ryo’s lips quirked in the smallest defiance before matching Vincent’s volume.

“What are you doin' to me?

(hey)

what are you doin', huh?

(what are you doin', what?)

What are you doin', huh?

(what are you doin' to me?)

(What are you doin', huh?)

(yeah, you just want attention)

What are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?

(I knew from the start)

(You're just making sure I'm never gettin' over you)

what are you doin' to me, what are you doin', huh?

Oh, oh”

Both voices clashing and blending in a way that felt electric.

The music faded but neither moved immediately. Vincent finally broke away with an easy chuckle, walking back to the couch and taking a sip from his drink like nothing had happened.

Ryo exhaled, lowering his mic, telling himself it was just a song — but catching Vincent glancing at him over the rim of his glass said otherwise.

Chapter Text

A week left in Paris.

Ryo could already feel the distance creeping in, like the city itself was pushing him out. The cobbled streets and glittering lights had charmed him, but they were not his own. This wasn’t the place where he learned how to dart across busy crossings as a child, or where his grandmother first taught him to hold chopsticks properly. Paris had given him beauty, but not belonging.

Japan was still his home. Messy, exhausting, suffocating at times—but still home. He knew its seasons, its smells, its rhythm. He knew where he stood there. France, meanwhile, had been… a detour. A glossy distraction. Something extra that had slipped into his life unexpectedly. And yet—it had changed him.

He had learned here. How to slow down. How to breathe in a workplace that didn’t demand the marrow from his bones. Long lunches, afternoons that ended on time, the strange luxury of paid leave. He hadn’t known what to do with it at first, had used it only once, as if it were forbidden. But the freedom had been real.

And the city had taught him other things too. A handful of French phrases: merci, bon travail. The sound of laughter in wine-soaked evenings. The dizzying sight of landmarks he’d only seen in textbooks. He had adapted. He had lived differently. And maybe, someday, he would miss this.

Maybe he would miss the quiet corners he had stumbled into. Maybe he would even miss the people who had made the city less foreign.

Maybe he would miss him.

The thought pressed sharp against his chest. Vincent. His boss. His complication. The man who had managed, without trying, to unravel him all over again.

Ryo had not expected to fall here. He had not expected his heart to be touched, then toyed with—because that’s what it felt like, didn’t it? That Vincent had never truly cared enough to know him. Not his favorite food, not his favorite color, not the little things that marked who he was. And if Vincent hadn’t bothered to learn those, how could the bigger things—the heavier truths of him—ever matter?

It stung.

But then again, hadn’t Vincent always seemed… held back? Trapped in his role, in the cage of being the perfect executive? Has Ryo ever given him the space to ask, to discover, to reach for him beyond the confines of work and stolen evenings?

No. That was dangerous thinking. That was sympathy creeping in. And Ryo couldn’t afford it now.

He had to let go.

When the plane left Charles de Gaulle, he would leave it all behind—the long lunches, the glittering monuments, and Vincent Fabron most of all. He would bury the ache deep, and France would become a country he wouldn’t willingly visit again.

Because if he carried him home, the weight of it might crush him.

He snapped out of the trance he was apparently in when Nakamura put his hand on Ryo’s shoulder. He blinked twice, registered that he was literally just staring at the computer, and looked at Nakamura. 

The man grinned at his shock, “ごめんなさい！怖がらせちゃった？” (Sorry! Did I scare you?)

He didn’t get the chance to respond before Nakamura exclaimed, “日本のスタッフがあなたの歌声に感動したようで、日本人限定のランチパーティーに招待してくれました。参加してみませんか？” (The Japanese staff were so impressed by your singing that they invited you to a lunch party exclusively for Japanese people. Would you like to join?)

He nodded in response. This would be a good break for him and a great way to interact with people who he would be with on the plane ride back to Tokyo.

…

The izakaya-style restaurant tucked in the corner of Paris was dimly lit, its wooden panels and sake bottles lined on shelves almost nostalgic enough to pass for home. Ryo sat at the end of the long table, sandwiched between Nakamura and a younger woman from accounting whose name he barely remembered. Still, she had already poured his glass of beer with a cheerful “Otsukaresama desu!” and insisted he drink with them. 

The little restaurant buzzed with chatter, steam rising from bowls of ramen that weren’t quite like home but were close enough to make everyone sigh in relief. Ryo sat tucked at the edge of the table, chopsticks in hand, listening as Nakamura carried most of the conversation. They were loud in that familiar way only Japanese coworkers could be after months of swallowing themselves in another culture — laughter sharper, words faster, stories bouncing from one to the next.

“Finally,” Nakamura sighed, slapping Ryo’s back. “This is what I’ve been craving. The bread here—don’t get me wrong—it’s good, but I need rice to survive.”

The group laughed, everyone nodding in agreement. Someone clapped Nakamura on the shoulder.

“You always know the good places, Nakamura-san,” a man from marketing said, raising his chopsticks. “This—this actually tastes right. Not like the ‘Japanese fusion’ we get at company dinners.”

One woman chimed in, “You know what I miss? Convenience store bentō. Cheap, easy, good. Here, even an authentic sandwich feels like a luxury.”

“Convenience stores here don’t even deserve the name,” someone else added. “Where are the fried chicken skewers? The nikuman? All they have is… chips.”

Ryo found himself smiling despite the ache in his chest. The rhythm of Japanese voices filled him with a strange, aching comfort. It was fast, teasing, overlapping — home in sound, even if not in place.

One of the men launched into a rant about public transportation. “Have you seen how late the trains are here? Ten minutes, sometimes twenty! In Japan, if a train’s late by a minute, they print you an apology slip. Here? Nothing. Just shrugs.”

That earned a round of laughter. Nakamura leaned forward, chopsticks waving. “And the portions. Don’t get me started. In Japan, you get a proper set meal. Here, they bring you one plate and call it dinner.”

“Yeah, and it’s expensive too,” another added. “How do the French live like this? Tiny apartments, pricey food… I’d go broke.”

The conversation quickly spiraled, each person eager to compare life in Paris to life back home. 

“Lunch breaks here are so long!” one woman laughed. “I went shopping on a weekday and still made it back before anyone noticed.”

“In Japan, that’s unthinkable,” another chimed in. “You’d be lucky to even finish your bento in peace without your boss handing you more work.”

Ryo smiled faintly, letting the chatter wash over him. He didn’t know these colleagues well, but the rhythm of Japanese speech, the familiar complaints, felt grounding.

Then came the playful ribbing.

“Ah, but French people don’t live to work,” someone teased. “They work to live. Maybe we should bring that attitude back to Japan.”

“Good luck convincing management!” another shot back, the table erupting into laughter.

Ryo laughed along, though quietly, nursing his drink. He was content to listen, to soak in the nostalgia of it all. Until—

“Speaking of management,” a young woman giggled, lowering her voice but not enough to be discreet, “did you hear about the boss? The French one. They say he’s been hiding a secret lover all this time.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp enough that Ryo’s smile faltered. His chopsticks stilled mid-air. Around him, the table leaned closer, voices overlapping in a chorus of curiosity.
“Eh? Really?”
“No way.”
“Did you see them together?”

The woman shrugged, enjoying the attention. “I don’t know all the details. Just rumors, you know? But apparently, it’s been going on for months. Very hush-hush.”

Ryo forced himself to lower his chopsticks, setting them neatly beside his plate. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, each word echoing louder than the next. Secret lover. Months. Hush-hush.

The others laughed it off soon enough, the conversation spilling into safer topics. But Ryo couldn’t shake it. Their voices blurred into meaningless sound. His own thoughts roared louder.

A lover. Of course. Why had he thought…? Why had he ever let himself think otherwise?

His hand moved on autopilot, lifting noodles to his mouth. They were tasteless. He swallowed anyway.

“I mean the boss is handsome and rich. Who wouldn’t wanna be his lover?” 

The table buzzed with debate, but their voices blurred into meaningless static. Ryo sat frozen, the warmth of nostalgia draining from him, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He had never belonged here—not in this country, not in this company, not even in Vincent’s carefully curated world.

For a fleeting moment, he had almost felt at home tonight. Now, he only felt further away than ever.

This should have felt like belonging. Home, in miniature. Instead, it pressed him further out — as though everyone had a place in this circle but him.

He raised his glass when Nakamura shoved it into his hand, smiling just enough to pass. But when the toast rang out, Ryo’s voice didn’t make it into the chorus.

For the first time all evening, he realized: he wasn’t really part of this group. Or of any group, here or in Japan.

And the thought left him colder than the Paris winter outside.

…

A week left. Time, in Paris, meant deadlines, calendars, a rhythm dictated by markets. Here, it slipped by differently—slower in the mornings, quicker in the nights, like sand through fingers. A week was nothing, and yet, he found himself watching it as if it might change something.

Change his decision of indulging with the secret plans of his doppelganger. This won’t affect his work at all, of course. The company can run itself. He was merely just the face of it all. Someone to oversee every project and go to fancy meetings and events to represent, socialize, build connections. This was always what his father planned and taught him.

For him to look and be untouchable. For him to be all powerful and knowing. For him to thrive and conquer. So he never became stumped for problems that could simply pass. 

But for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to enact and what strategies to use.

He had been trained to think in outcomes, profits, negotiations. But there were no formulas, no graphs, no contracts to draft against silence in an empty apartment. No quarterly report for the ache of being left behind.

What is the cure to loneliness?

Surely, it's not to contact “yourself” from another earth. He made sure to think about the positives and negatives of working with the mirror version of yourself from another earth. As wild as that sounds, it's true. 

Vincent did give in. His curiosity and passion for innovation are too strong to stop him from making a decision that could change his whole world—those excuses sounded noble enough. Perhaps he simply needed a distraction. From markets, from boardrooms. From somebody whose absence already pressed against his ribs.

Someone who was about to leave him soon. Just as his mother did. Just as everyone left. He could extend their stay, bend the rules, and twist the clock. But is it even worth it to fight for someone who will never give you a reason to? Someone whose walls were too high to break through? Someone who kept you around with no promises? 

Maybe this is the end of their chapter. Just not their story. Vincent Fabron is persistent, he won’t let go.

Vincent’s thoughts were spiraling into dangerous territory when the familiar WOOOSH cut through the air. Pressure shifted in the room, followed by a wave of dizziness that curled hot behind his eyes. He didn’t need to look up to know. His double was here.

Victor Fabron stood before him, choking back a cough, eyes gleaming with something sharp and uncanny. Vincent could never get used to this—looking at someone so familiar, yet so foreign.

“Bonjour, I intend to make this a short stay.” The voice was his own, smooth like honey, but roughened by wear. Hollow where Vincent’s still carried warmth.

“I see you’ve accepted this alliance,” Victor began easily. “I suppose you need more information about my earth.”

Vincent hummed noncommittally, already wary.

“To put it simply, we are more advanced. In technology, time… and radiance.” The word landed strange, heavy. Vincent frowned. He had no idea what the fuck his double was talking about.

“What is radiance exactly?” His tone sharpened. “And I assume you need something from me, non? Out with it.” He didn’t want his double to beat around the bush.

Victor’s smile widened, rehearsed, slick. “Well, of course! How observant of me. Radiants gain their powers from how their unique genetics react to radianite—events that awaken abilities, sometimes changing their bodies. Eye color. Hair. The spectrum of powers is broad: some generate it from within, some require objects, some… pay for it with their lives. Not all radiance is a gift.”

“We,” Victor gestured to the both of them, “are not blessed with such radiance. Which means we need radianite.”

Vincent leaned back, unimpressed. “Is this where I come in? Why do you need another you for this?” He pressed.

“Because you cannot trust anyone but yourself.” Victor chuckled—low, sickly sweet. Even Vincent’s stomach turned at the sound. He knew there must be more to this. There has to be a reason why his doppelganger needed to contact someone out of his earth for this.

He knew there was more. There always was.

Vincent hummed acknowledgedly before starting, “I am curious as to how you teleport through the fabric of time and dimensions to get to another earth.”

At that, Victor’s eyes gleamed. He held up a small device—something dense, humming faintly. “This is a teleporting anchor. I haven’t mastered it, but it allows me to arrive precisely where I choose. Not how I cross worlds, no… only how I step into your office.”

Vincent’s expression didn’t flicker. He’d learned not to give him that satisfaction. Before he could reply, a knock came at the door. The timing was merciful.

“You’re overextending your welcome,” Vincent said flatly. “Anything else?”

Victor only smirked. He placed a folded slip of paper on the desk, tapping it once with his finger. A code. Something to be solved.

When Vincent glanced down at it, the air shifted again—lightness in the space where his double had stood. He was gone.

Only when Vincent was certain of the silence did he rise, slip the paper into his hand, and move toward the door.

There was a fragile hope in Vincent’s chest that the knock belonged to a certain Japanese man—one who might finally choose to speak to him. But alas, hopes are just hopes. Dreams are just dreams.

Instead, his assistant stormed in. Mrs. Montmorency—short, round-shouldered, her cherry-red lipstick clashing with her tired complexion. She still looked half-buried in sleepless nights and bottles, fresh from thirty-four weeks of maternity leave.

“Mrs. Montmorency,” Vincent greeted with polite warmth, flashing a small smile. “Are you alright? How are the children?”

She frowned, unimpressed, shoving an envelope at him. “Fabron. What is the meaning of this?”

His throat tightened. The manila envelope was fresh, too stiff, too final. He opened it carefully—inside, a marriage contract, stamped and formal, accompanied by several documents. At the top, a letter addressed in neat, elegant script. His jaw tensed.

“What are these?” His voice carried steel, though his hands betrayed tension in the way they gripped the papers.

“Ms. Élodie wrote to you weeks ago,” Montmorency snapped. “Her proposal had to be processed through me before reaching you. And I am appalled to see you rejected her. Do you understand what you’ve done? It is written in your father’s will that you are to marry into her family name. You finally had the opportunity—and you pushed her away? You let an employee insult her and send her off?”

Her words fell like blows, each one heavier than the last.

Vincent exhaled slowly, forcing composure back into his frame. His mind was already racing—calculations, contingencies, the memory of Élodie offering him that ring flickering like a wound he had never asked for.

Vincent’s eyes lingered on the contract, on the careful cursive of Élodie’s letter. He folded it back into the envelope as though it were nothing but a meaningless scrap.

“Mrs. Montmorency,” he said evenly, his voice clipped, almost too calm, “what you call an opportunity, I call a cage. My father’s will is not a commandment etched in stone—it is an arrangement meant to preserve a name, not a life.”

Montmorency bristled. “You’re playing with legacy. With obligation. To reject Élodie so bluntly—letting an employee, of all people, speak to her that way—it’s scandalous.”

The word employee landed like a pin dropped on glass. Vincent’s mask did not crack, but his hand—resting on the edge of his desk—tightened slightly. Almost imperceptible. Almost. A flicker passed across Vincent’s face. Too fast to be controlled. His gaze dropped, just for an instant.

If only she knew. If only anyone knew. That same employee was the one who made his heart restless, who haunted him with quiet glances and unspoken words. The only person he could not master, no matter how hard he tried. The love of his life, hidden in plain sight.

But none of that reached his tongue.

Montmorency’s eyes followed the movement, then drifted, deliberately, back to the documents. She didn’t comment. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she gave a small, knowing hum, like someone piecing together a puzzle they weren’t supposed to solve. “Still,” she murmured, her tone lighter, almost casual, “it’s admirable, in a way. To hold to what you really want, even when legacy demands otherwise.”

Vincent’s jaw tensed, but he did not speak, instead, smoothing the crease in his cuff. “Legacy is cold comfort to a man who cannot breathe in his own house. I will not marry a woman to please ghosts. That is final.”

The silence stretched, taut with his unyielding resolve. Montmorency’s frown deepened, but even she could sense the futility of pressing further.

She let the silence stretch, then smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said I see more than you think I do. “Don’t worry, Fabron. My lips are sealed. For now.”

With that, she tucked the envelope back into his hands and turned toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Vincent sat frozen, staring after her long after she had gone, pulse betraying the calm his face maintained.

…

Ryo’s apartment looked smaller with boxes scattered across the floor. Half-folded clothes, stacks of papers, and the hollow sound of tape pulling from its roll filled the silence. He told himself this was practical—organizing, preparing, keeping busy. But the truth bled through in every motion. It wasn’t just packing. It was running.

He folded a shirt, pressed it too tightly into a box, then stopped. His hands trembled, the fabric crushed in his grip. It was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t leaving Paris tomorrow. He wasn’t even sure where he would go. And yet some instinct urged him to prepare, as though the ground beneath him had already given way.

His eyes drifted to the closet. A sliver of fabric hung loose on the corner of the shelf. Familiar, out of place. He pulled it free.

The scarf.

Soft, navy wool, faintly scented with cologne that had long since faded, yet still carried something unmistakable—Vincent. The night was carved into his memory: the cold wind, Vincent draping it around his shoulders without a word, the brush of his hands lingering just a moment too long. It had been the first time Ryo had let himself think, foolishly, that there might be more than polished smiles and veiled commands between them.

Now, the scarf weighed heavy in his hands. Too heavy. He pressed it to his chest, breath stuttering, as if fabric alone could steady him.

But all it did was hurt.

Because while Élodie’s ring still glimmered in his mind, he now knew—he knew—that Vincent belonged to another world he could never touch. A world of contracts, legacies, whispered expectations that had no place for a man like him. And yet, here he was, clutching a relic of something that was never his to begin with.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Élodie’s fingers offering that ring. The tenderness in her voice, the way Vincent hadn’t pushed her away immediately. Ryo didn’t need anyone to spell it out. The “secret lover" his coworkers were talking about, the subtle shift in his expression when Élodie entered the room—it all lined up too perfectly. Of course it was her.

And of course, it had never been him.

Ryo sat down on the edge of his bed, the scarf tangled in his fingers. The silence around him pressed in, suffocating. He wanted to throw it into the box, bury it beneath layers of clothes and paper, hide it where his heart couldn’t reach. But his hand refused to let go.

Instead, he lowered his head, the fabric catching against his cheek, and whispered words he would never say aloud.

“Why did you have to give this to me?”

The question dissolved into the air, unanswered, as dread thickened in his chest. For the first time, Ryo realized—he wasn’t afraid of leaving. He was afraid of staying.

Ryo laughed under his breath—sharp, bitter, self-directed. He was stupid. Utterly, pathetically stupid to believe otherwise. To mistake courtesy for care, fleeting kindness for affection. To imagine even for a second that someone like Vincent Fabron—perfect, untouchable—would choose him.

The scarf tangled in his hands, and he wanted to throw it away, to shove it deep in the box and pretend it never existed. But he couldn’t. His grip refused to loosen.

“I was such a fool.”

The confession dissolved into the air, unanswered. 

…

The farewell dinner had been loud, almost unbearably so. Toasts clinked, beer foamed over glasses, laughter spilled into every corner of the room. The Japanese department—temporary exiles turned companions—celebrated their last night in Paris with the rowdy ease of people who knew they had endured something together.

Ryo had smiled when he had to, joined in on the toasts, even laughed when Nakamura made a fool of himself trying to teach the French waiter how to properly bow. But inside, he felt strangely hollow, as though his chest had already been carved out to make room for the distance waiting for him. Every word of farewell rang like an echo—already fading, already gone.

By the time they reached Charles de Gaulle, the noise had softened. The shuffle of suitcases on tile filled the air, the mechanical voice of the loudspeaker called flights in monotone, and the departures board blinked with inevitability. People hugged, bowed, promised reunions they knew would never come.

And then there was him.

Vincent Fabron stood apart from the group, a tall, immaculate figure under the sterile lights. His suit looked untouched by the day’s fatigue, his face composed as ever, but his presence felt heavier than the weight of all the luggage combined. He had insisted on accompanying them to the airport. “Professional courtesy,” he had called it. But it was something else. Ryo could feel it.

He told himself not to look. Not to seek him out. Not to falter. Yet his gaze betrayed him anyway, sliding to Vincent for just a moment. And there it was—something in his eyes. Not the polished mask of a CEO, not the effortless charm of the man who commanded boardrooms. Something raw. A shadow. A plea.

Ryo tore his eyes away before he could be caught. It didn’t matter. Whatever had existed between them—whatever he had let himself believe existed—was nothing more than smoke. Fragile. Foolish. Unworthy of clinging to.

Japan was his home. Paris had been a detour. And Vincent… Vincent had been the most dangerous distraction of all.

The others began to move toward security. Tickets and passports flashed in hands, lines forming beneath the glow of overhead screens. Ryo adjusted the strap of his bag, trying to will his heartbeat steady. He could feel Vincent’s gaze on him, heavy and unrelenting.

Finally, Vincent spoke. His voice was steady, even, threaded with the kind of control only a lifetime of practice could build.

“Farewell, safe travels.”

Three words. Ordinary. But they carried the weight of finality, the ache of something unsaid. Ryo froze for the briefest moment, pulse hammering in his throat. He didn’t look back. He didn’t trust himself too.

Instead, he gave the smallest nod. Silent. Resigned. And then he stepped forward, swallowed by the flow of travelers toward the gates.

Vincent didn’t move. He watched until the last glimpse of Ryo disappeared into the crowd—dark hair and straight shoulders dissolving into anonymity. The air seemed to tighten around him once the man was gone, as though the airport itself had been holding its breath.

He finally turned, the echo of his footsteps following him out into the cool evening. His driver opened the door to the sleek black car, and Vincent slipped inside without a word.

The city is blurred by streaks of light and motion. He loosened his tie, exhaled, and tried to ease the pressure wound tight in his chest. But then—roaring overhead—the sound of engines cut through the night.

A plane lifted above the skyline, its lights glimmering like stars as it carved its way into the dark. Vincent’s gaze locked on it, jaw tightening, shoulders rigid against the leather seat.

For anyone else, it would have been the end. Final. Unchangeable.

But Vincent Fabron was not anyone else.

His reflection in the window was calm, his voice low and unyielding as he whispered to himself, “Not forever.”

The vow was barely a breath, swallowed by the hum of the city, but it anchored itself inside him like iron.

The car pulled forward, carrying him away. He didn’t look back—not at the airport, not at the plane—because he didn’t need to. He would see him again.

Somehow.