Keyring

“This has to be the worst vacation ever.”

Stella stared at the ceiling of her hotel room. She followed the gold-colored engravings etched into the plaster, looping and curling like they had all the time in the world. Each pattern blurred into the next as she tried to calm the mess coiling in her mind.

Paris was supposed to feel romantic.

The city of love.

The city of effortless charm.

Instead, it felt like a beautifully decorated trap.

All of this had started with a lie. A small one, almost harmless.

As the daughter of a wealthy yet relentlessly curious pair of parents, Stella had learned early that deflection was easier than confrontation. Every family dinner came with the same questions, made differently each time.

Are you seeing anyone these days?

Is there someone special?

You’re not getting any younger, you know.

She had smiled, stirred her drink, and said the first thing that sounded far enough away to discourage follow-ups.

“Someone overseas.”

Overseas had felt safe, vague enough for them to feed off.

She hadn’t expected her mother’s eyes to light up like she’d just been handed good news.

“What does he do?” her father had asked, already invested.

The details came too easily after that.

Korean.

Studying something modest, maybe architecture.

Living and staying at a studio apartment in Paris.

Each addition slipped out smoothly, stacking itself into something that almost resembled a person.

She’d gone to bed that night feeling victorious.

Until now.

Stella rolled onto her side and buried half her face into the pillow. From the other room, she could hear her parents talking softly, the sound of their voices muffled by the hotel walls. Every now and then, her name floated through the air.

Tomorrow, her mother had said earlier, they’d like to meet him.

Stella squeezed her eyes shut.

What would she do then when there was no overseas boyfriend.

No long-distance calls. No time difference excuses.

Just a story she’d dressed too well, polished until it fooled even her.

She sat up abruptly, heart pounding, and reached for her phone. Her screen lit up with a dozen unread messages from her parents’, all variations of the same sentiment.

We’re so excited.

He must be very busy with school.

Tell him we’d love to take him out for a meal.

Stella let her head fall back against the pillow.

Somewhere out there, in this city that wasn’t hers, was a man who did not exist. And somehow, by tomorrow, she was expected to introduce him.

She laughed once, quietly, the sound brittle.

“Overseas,” she muttered to the ceiling. “I should’ve said Mars.”

Outside, Paris hummed on, unaware. The city lights filtered in through the curtains, golden and indifferent.

Stella stared at them, a decision slowly, reluctantly taking shape.

If she couldn’t produce the truth then

she would have to find something that looked close enough to it.

-

Stella woke to the pale Parisian light slipping through the thin gap in the curtains, the city already alive somewhere below her window. For a brief, merciful second, she forgot where she was. Then the weight of her memories pressed down on her chest, familiar and unforgiving.

She checked the time. Too early for her parents to be awake.

Good.

She moved quietly, slipping into a simple coat and tying her hair back with more care than usual, as if looking put together might somehow translate into thinking clearly. Before leaving, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked calm, almost composed.

A liar, but a convincing one it seemed.

Outside, Paris felt different in the morning. Less theatrical. The streets were damp from an early drizzle, cafés just beginning to open, metal chairs scraped into place by sleepy owners. The air smelled like bread and something bitter mixed in with smoke.

Stella walked without direction, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly as if answers might be hidden between emails and unread notifications. She passed couples, students, tourists clutching maps. None of them knew she was looking for a man who didn’t exist.

She stopped near a small square, watching pigeons scatter as a bicycle passed through. Her parents’ words echoed in her head.

We’d love to meet him.

Her grip tightened around her phone.

She had no plan. Just a growing sense of urgency and the ridiculous criteria she kept repeating to herself like a checklist.

Korean.

Male.

Lives here.

Studies here.

Willing to show up as her boyfriend.

The last one felt the most impossible.

Stella crossed the street and found herself near a cluster of older buildings, quieter than the main roads. She turned a corner and then another, eyes drifting end to end to people that passed hoping to pick someone out.

But it felt like finding a needle in a haystack.

Stella turned to another street, more quieter than the main roads and crossways but it still had life in front of the cafes and pastry shops.

The smell of freshly made bread and coffee immediately reminded her that she skipped breakfast.

Her stomach protested softly, a quiet, traitorous sound. Stella slowed near a small café, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A chalkboard sign leaned against the door, the writing looping and elegant, promising pastries she couldn’t pronounce.

She hesitated.

Eating felt indulgent under the circumstances. As if stopping for breakfast might mean admitting she wasn’t in crisis. Still, her feet carried her closer, drawn by the low murmur of voices and the clink of porcelain.

She pushed the door open, the bell ringing above to announce her arrival. The warmth soon enveloped her, warming her hands from the cold morning outside.

She stood behind the line that had already formed before the counter. Her eyes drifted off to the display of pastries and cakes behind the glass.

They were arranged with deliberate care, each one too perfect to touch. Flaky layers caught the light, sugar dusted like something ornamental rather than edible. Stella scanned them without really seeing, her mind still elsewhere.

The line moved slowly.

Behind her, the door chimed again. In front of her, someone laughed softly in a language she didn’t understand. The café hummed with a quiet, everyday rhythm that made her feel like an intruder in someone else’s morning.

When she reached the counter, she ordered out of instinct more than appetite, pointing to something that looked safe.

The barista smiled, rattled off a question Stella couldn’t quite catch, and she nodded anyway.

Coffee appeared in her hands moments later, warm and fragrant.

She turned, searching for somewhere to sit.

Her steps moved deeper into the cafe while her mind thought back to what would happen if her search for a man that didn’t exist failed.

What would she even say?

Oh, I’m sorry. He doesn’t actually exist, I made him up just so you could stop putting me on random dates with your business friends’ sons.

Could she even face them in the first place?

She sighed, just as she spotted a table by the far end of the cafe.

Relief loosened something in her chest. Far enough from the counter to disappear for a moment.

She took a step forward.

And then another.

Before her heel caught on nothing and everything at once.

The world tilted.

The cup slipped from her fingers, heat surging upward as coffee arced through the air in a clumsy, inevitable splash. It landed squarely on the edge of a small round table, sloshing over paper, wood, and fabric with a soft but devastating sound.

“Oh—!”

Stella froze.

The smell hit first. Freshly brewed and now thoroughly ruined.

“I’m so sorry, I—” The apology rushed out of her before she even looked up.

Then she did.

The man sitting at the table had already stood halfway, chair scraping back as he took in the damage. Coffee soaked into the corner of an open notebook, darkening carefully drawn lines. A few drops had splattered onto his sleeve.

For a moment, he just stared at the table.

Not angry. Not shocked.

Assessing.

“I didn’t mean to,” Stella continued quickly, panic tightening her throat. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I can replace it, I’ll pay for everything, I—”

Her words slowed as his gaze finally lifted to meet hers.

Up close, he looked different. Tired, maybe. Focused in a way that felt permanent rather than situational. His eyes flicked briefly to her face, then back to the notebook, as if already calculating loss and repair.

“It’s fine,” He said, in Korean.

The sound of it startled her more than the spill.

“W-what was that?” She said, slowly picking herself up from the floor.

“I said it’s fine, no harm done. Well, not much.” He continued.

Stella looked back at his table and at the mess she accidentally made. Without much of a second thought, she placed the tissues in her hand over the now damp notebook.

His hand moved, trying to stop her. “Wait no…it’ll smudge the ink.” He sighed out.

He sighed out, the sound more resigned than upset, and gently took the tissues from her hand before any more damage could be done.

“It’s really okay,” he said again, this time softer, as if repeating it might make her believe him. He lifted the notebook slightly, angling it away from the spreading stain. “It’s not the first time.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Stella replied, mortified. Her cheeks burned as she straightened fully, brushing her palms against her coat like she could wipe the moment away. “You were working. I ruined it.”

He glanced at the page, then closed the notebook carefully, fingers lingering at the damp edge. “I’ll redraw it.”

She watched the way he handled it, carefully, and practiced. Like loss was something he’d learned to minimize rather than mourn.

“I still owe you,” she insisted. “At least let me replace your coffee.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the cup that had survived the spill by sheer luck. Then, after a beat, he nodded once. “That’s fine.”

Relief rushed through her, quick and dizzying. “Okay. Thank you. I mean—thank you for not being mad.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t annoyed,” he replied, deadpan.

Her eyes widened before she caught the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. It was barely there, gone almost immediately, but it loosened something tight in her chest.

She gestured awkwardly toward the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

This time, she walked carefully.

When she returned, balancing two cups like fragile boxes, he had wiped down the table and sat back in his chair, notebook tucked safely into his bag.

“Is this seat taken?”

He looked up to her placing the cup in front of him before she took the seat across from him. He accepted the coffee with a small shake of his head.

They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure what came next. Around them, the café continued its quiet movement. Someone laughed. Someone else called out an order. Outside, a bus passed, rattling softly.

Stella cleared her throat.

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “You looked… busy.”

“I was,” he admitted. “But it’s fine. I needed a break.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry to ask but are you Korean?”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyebrows slightly raised, as if weighing whether she was serious or joking. Then he nodded once, careful.

“Yes,” he said, voice calm, neutral, but with a subtle weight that made her stomach flip.

Stella exhaled, relief mixing with nerves. “Me too,” she said quickly. “I mean… obviously. I just… I thought maybe—” She trailed off, aware of how strange she must sound.

He tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “You’re Korean. In Paris. Alone?”

She shook her head, forcing a laugh she didn’t feel. “Not exactly alone. My parents are with me… they’re very excited to be here, actually. And, uh…we’re on vacation.”

He nodded his head again, slowly taking a sip from his cup. “Hope you enjoy your time here then.”

For Stella, it was anything but enjoyable.

“Ah right, I haven’t introduced myself.”

He glanced at her, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting.

“I’m Kim Dahyun but most people call me Stella, it’s my english name.” she said, voice a little breathless, as if saying her name could somehow calm her nerves.

“That’s a nice name,” He replied simply, a smile growing across his lips.

“Right? Mom says it perfectly describes me, though I might say otherwise. Wait, and you are…“

He looked up from his cup, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint, amused smile. “Yoon (YN),” he said simply, letting the syllables settle between them.

Stella repeated it quietly under her breath, tasting the name. “Yoon (YN)… got it.” She nodded. “So… uh… what are you doing here in Paris? Studying?”

He nodded, gesturing subtly to the notebook tucked in his bag. “Architecture. Local college. Been working on some sketches this morning.”

Stella’s heart skipped.

Architecture…

That matched her mental checklist perfectly. She tried not to look too impressed, though her mind was racing.

He’s Korean, he’s here, he’s… the JACKPOT!

“That’s…really impressive,” she said carefully, keeping her voice casual. “I’ve always admired people who can…you know, draw buildings that don’t exist yet and make them feel real.”

He smirked lightly, the first real flicker of warmth. “You make it sound like magic.”

She laughed softly, a little relieved at the sound of her own voice. “Maybe it is magic. Or maybe it’s just… talent. Which you clearly have.”

A brief silence followed, comfortable now, like the calm after the chaos of spilled coffee. Stella’s fingers drummed nervously on the table. She had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in her head, yet now that she was sitting across from him, it all felt impossibly fragile.

She took a deep breath, knowing the next words were coming whether she wanted them to or not. “I—uh… I actually need a favor,” she said, voice low and careful.

He raised an eyebrow, the faint smirk still lingering. “Oh? Is it something I can help with?”

“You’re exactly what I’m looking for.” Stella replied a bit too quickly as he raised a brow.

He blinked once.

Just once. But it was enough.

“Exactly what you’re… looking for?” he repeated, carefully, as if testing the shape of the sentence before letting it mean anything dangerous.

Stella realized immediately how that sounded.

“No— I mean— not like that,” she rushed, hands lifting off the table in a small, useless gesture. “I didn’t mean you you, I just meant— circumstances. You fit the circumstances.”

That only seemed to amuse him more.

“Ah,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair. “So I’m a set of convenient qualifications now.”

Her face burned. “That came out wrong too.”

He watched her squirm for a second longer than necessary, eyes steady, curious rather than unkind. Then he took another sip of his coffee, buying her a moment to breathe.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Try again.”

Stella exhaled slowly, gathering the scattered pieces of her courage. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing against damp pavement. Inside, the café felt suddenly very small.

“My parents,” she began. “They’re… traditional. And very invested in my personal life. To the point where they don’t really believe I can exist without a man attached to me.”

He hummed softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just listening.

“I may have,” she hesitated, eyes dropping to the table, “mentioned someone. Back home. Someone they’ve never met.”

His gaze sharpened just a fraction. “You invented a person.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Briefly. Casually. Recklessly.”

“And now,” he said, already ahead of her, “they want to meet him.”

She nodded, shoulders slumping. “Today. Lunch. Somewhere very public. Very… interrogative.”

Silence stretched between them, filled with the clink of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine. He studied her face again, more carefully this time. The tension in her jaw. The way her fingers twisted together like they were bracing for impact.

“And I…” he said slowly, “somehow fit to be this person.”

“I know it’s a stretch, but could you please help me?” Stella pressed her palms together and leaned her head forward.

He clicked his tongue lightly, “I don’t know…Maybe I could just call a friend?”

She shook her head, “There’s no need for that. You’d do just fine, there’s no need to drag anybody else into this.”

His brows furrowed, still looking unsure. “I don’t know…”

He leaned back again, gaze drifting past her shoulder toward the fogged window, as if the answer might be written somewhere in the gray morning outside. His fingers tapped once against the side of his cup.

“You’re asking a stranger,” he said at last, eyes returning to her, “to sit across from your parents and lie convincingly about caring for you thousands of miles away.”

When he put it that way, it sounded more…intimate.

Stella swallowed. “I know. And I wouldn’t ask if I had literally any other option.” A second then softer. “I wouldn’t normally ask at all.”

He watched her closely now. The panic she was trying to keep folded away. The way her shoulders stayed tense, like she was bracing for rejection before it happened.

“You could still say you broke up,” he offered.

“They’d want reasons.”

“Moved too fast?”

“They’d want details.”

He paused. “Long distance?”

“They’d want proof I tried.”

A cornered smile tugged at her lips. “They’re very thorough.”

That earned a quiet breath from him. Not quite a laugh. More like one for giving up.

“And how long is this…?” he asked.

“An hour,” she said quickly. “Maybe less if my mother doesn’t like you.”

“And if she does?”

Stella grimaced. “Then… longer.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as if calculating the emotional architecture of the situation. Load-bearing lies. Structural weaknesses.

“I don’t like lying,” he said.

“I know,” she replied immediately. “You don’t seem like someone who does.”

That made him open his eyes.

She hadn’t meant it as flattery. It came out simple and somehow that landed harder.

“And if I do this,” he continued, “and they ask me things…”

“Every single detail,” She repeated, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I’ll make sure they don’t corner you. I’ll be the cover, you just… you just have to be the face.”

(YN) looked at her. He saw the desperation, yes, but he also saw the fierce loyalty she had to her own freedom. She wasn’t just lying to be cruel, she was lying to survive a life she hadn’t chosen for herself.

Yet something felt lodged in his throat, keeping the words he wanted to say.

“I’ll pay you!” Stella shouted like it was her last resort before being sent into whatever world was waiting for her.

Her voice cut through the quiet cafe, a couple at the next table glanced over, the barista looked up. Stella realized what she’d said a half second too late.

“I—” she froze, then winced. “I didn’t mean it like— I mean, I did, but not like that. I just—”

(YN) held up a hand.

It wasn’t abrupt. A small gesture. A stop before the structure collapses.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

Her mouth closed. Her hands fell back into her lap, fingers curling into her coat like they needed something to hold onto.

He studied her again, but differently now. Not as a stranger who’d spilled coffee on his work. Not even as a mildly entertaining inconvenience. He was looking at the seams. The stress points.

“You think money makes this simpler,” he continued, voice even. “It doesn’t.”

“I know,” she said immediately. “I know it doesn’t. I just panicked.” A breath. Then another. “I’m not trying to buy you. I just… I didn’t want this to feel like charity.”

That, finally, cracked something.

He looked down at his cup, then back up at her, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I wouldn’t do it as charity.”

The implication lingered.

“Then why would you?” she asked softly.

Silence answered first.

Outside, a gust rattled the awning. Inside, a spoon clinked against porcelain. The café kept going, oblivious, while something delicate balanced between them.

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “Because,” he said, choosing each word like it needed to bear weight,

“I want to help you.”

Her throat tightened.

“And because,” he added, almost reluctantly, “you didn’t lie to me. You panicked, yes. But you told me the truth.”

Stella’s eyes burned. She blinked hard, once.

“So,” he said, straightening slightly, decision settling into place like a final line on a blueprint. “No money.”

She nodded quickly. “Okay.”

“And we set boundaries.”

“Yes.”

“We leave if it gets uncomfortable.”

“Absolutely.”

“And,” he paused, eyes flicking to her face, “you don’t owe me anything after.”

Her nod slowed this time. “Okay.”

Another second passed.

He stood and fished his phone out of his pocket.

“I’ll give you my number, you can message me where we’ll meet. I’ll head back home and…get changed first.” He told her, eyes drifting down to the coffee stains on his shirt.

Stella watched him type his number into her phone, her hands steady despite the way her pulse fluttered under her skin. The screen glowed between them for a second too long, as if sealing a contract neither of them had fully read.

“There,” he said, handing it back to her. “Text me the address. And… the names. Your parents’ names.”

“Right,” she said quickly, fingers already hovering over the keyboard. “My dad is Kim Seung-ho. My mom is Lee Seoyeon. They’re—” she hesitated, then sighed. “They’re intense, but not unkind. Just… thorough.”

He nodded like that fit neatly into a category he understood.

“And me?” he asked. “Who am I supposed to be?”

Her lips parted, then closed again. That detail hadn’t solidified yet. She’d been so focused on finding someone that she’d forgotten she’d have to build him too.

“You’re…just yourself,” she said. “I never really gave my parents a name, they just took anything if it meant my boyfriend was doing fine and studying well so you can just be yourself, if you want.”

He let out a small breath at that. Not quite a laugh, but something close enough to soften the line of his shoulders.

“Just myself,” he repeated, as if testing the structural integrity of the idea. “That might be the hardest role.”

She smiled weakly. “You’re already overqualified.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, something curious stirring there again. “You say that like you know me.”

“I know enough,” she said, then quickly amended, “I mean— from the way you handled the notebook. And the coffee. And… me.”

That earned her a quiet look. Not scrutiny this time. Consideration.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “My major, my year, my plans. Those are all fair game?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Anything academic is safe territory. My parents love that.”

“And how we met?”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she huffed out a breath. “That one… I didn’t think about.”

He tilted his head. “You probably should.”

“Right.” She rubbed her temple, already tired. “I’ll just come up with something on the way back.”

“Alright, I’ll see you then?” He picked up his bag, throwing it over his shoulder.

She nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll text you.”

He hesitated, like there was something else to say that didn’t quite fit into the scaffolding they’d built. Then he adjusted the strap of his bag and took a step back.

“I’ll be on time,” he said. “If I’m going to lie, I might as well be punctual about it.”

That pulled a breath of laughter from her. Quiet, but real. “My parents will appreciate that.”

He gave a small, almost ceremonial nod. “Good. Then I’ll see you later, Stella.”

The way he said her name again made her chest tighten, subtle and unwelcome and entirely inconvenient.

“See you,” she replied.

He turned toward the door. The bell chimed softly as he pushed it open, a draft of cool air curling briefly around her ankles before disappearing with him into the street.

Stella stayed where she was, staring at the space he’d left behind. The chair across from her was empty now, the table wiped clean except for the faint, irregular stain where coffee had once spilled. Proof that something had happened. Or maybe proof that anything could be cleaned up.

He might have left.

But her smile stayed.

-

Stella soon returned to the hotel after a good minute or two of squinting at street signs she didn’t quite understand and arguing quietly with her phone’s map, which insisted she walk straight through what was very clearly a building. By the time she pushed through the revolving doors, her shoulders were tight with leftover nerves and mild embarrassment.

The lobby was busier than when she’d left.

Voices overlapped in several languages, suitcases rolled across marble floors, and the soft chime of the elevator sounded far too often for comfort. Tourists clustered near the front desk, a family argued gently over directions, and someone laughed too loudly near the seating area.

Her parents.

She spotted them instantly.

Her father sat upright on one of the velvet couches, coat neatly folded beside him, posture formal even on vacation. Her mother stood near the window, phone in hand, gesturing animatedly as she spoke to someone Stella couldn’t hear. Both of them looked alert.

Too alert.

Stella slowed her steps, heart dropping into her stomach.

They’re awake.

Worse, they looked like they were waiting.

“There you are,” her mother said, already walking toward her. “You disappeared this morning.”

“I—” Stella swallowed, forcing her shoulders to relax. “I went out for…a jog!.”

“You went alone?” her father asked.

“Yes,” Stella replied, too quickly, then corrected herself, tone lighter. “I mean, it’s just jog around the block.”

A fleeting second passed.

Her mother smiled, slow and knowing. “You could’ve told us. We would’ve joined you, I’ve been wanting to take a walk around.”

Stella smiled back, brittle. “It was early.”

Her father checked his watch. “It’s nearly ten.”

Of course it was.

“Well,” her mother said, linking an arm through Stella’s with a grip that was affectionate but firm, “since you’re back, we should finalize lunch plans after you wash up.”

Stella’s stomach twisted. “Lunch?”

“Yes,” her mother continued smoothly. “Your father found a nice place not far from here. Very well-reviewed.”

Her father nodded. “Quiet. Respectable. Not too crowded.”

Stella swallowed down a breath.

Stella let herself be steered toward the elevators, her mother’s arm looped through hers as if they were simply two women enjoying a morning together, not a daughter being subtly escorted back into line. The lobby noise faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of the elevator arriving.

“I just need to shower,” Stella said, a little too carefully. “I’ll be quick.”

“Of course,” her mother replied. “Take your time. Lunch isn’t until noon.”

That was not time. That was a countdown.

The elevator doors slid shut, mirrors lining the walls. Stella caught her reflection again. The same calm face. The same convincing liar. Her mother’s eyes flicked to the mirror too, catching the glance.

“You look flushed,” she observed lightly. “Did you run far?”

Stella swallowed. “Just enough.”

The elevator chimed, mercifully, and the doors opened onto their floor. The hallway was quiet, carpet muffling their steps as they walked toward their room. Her father unlocked the door, holding it open as they filed inside.

The moment the door closed behind them, Stella felt the space shrink.

“Go on,” her mother said, already setting her phone down on the desk. “We’ll rest a bit.”

Stella nodded and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door with more force than necessary.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and pulled her phone from her pocket.

Her fingers hovered over his name.

(YN).

It still felt strange seeing it there, solid and real. She typed, deleted, then typed again.

Stella: Hi. I’m back at the hotel. Lunch is at noon. I’ll send you the address soon. Thank you again… really.

She stared at the screen, heart thudding, then added one more line before she could overthink it.

Stella: And sorry in advance. My parents are going to be very curious.

She hit send and immediately set the phone down, as if it might burn her.

The shower ran, steam filling the small room, but her thoughts refused to settle. Noon. Two hours. Enough time to rehearse lies, invent a meet-cute, and somehow pretend her life wasn’t balanced on a borrowed stranger’s kindness.

When her shower was over, she picked out an outfit from the baker’s dozen she’d pack solely for this trip. Eventually, she settled on a layered-look top consisting of a navy blue, short-sleeved cropped sweater worn over a black-and-white checked collared shirt and a black pleated skirt. It wasn’t a lot but it was enough to make her look presentable. She didn’t hope they’d match but if they somehow did, then plus points.

She dried her hair with deliberate care, fingers combing through damp strands until they fell into place with practiced ease.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, the room felt different. Smaller. Quieter in a way that made every movement feel observed.

Her father sat by the window now, flipping through something on his phone, glasses perched low on his nose. Her mother lay back against the headboard, scrolling as well, but her eyes lifted immediately when Stella appeared.

“Hm,” her mother hummed. “That’s a nice outfit.”

Stella paused halfway across the room. Compliments, when they came like that, were never just compliments. “Thank you.”

“You dress better when you travel,” her mother added.

Her father glanced up briefly, then nodded. “It suits you.”

Something in Stella’s chest loosened, just a fraction. Approval, however conditional, still counted as oxygen.

She sat on the edge of the bed to slip on her shoes, tying the laces carefully. Her phone buzzed softly against the nightstand.

Her heart jumped.

She reached for it too quickly, then forced herself to slow, casual as she checked the screen.

(YN): Understood. Curious I can handle. Just send me the address when you’re ready.

She stared at the message a second longer than necessary, then typed back.

Stella: I will. Thank you. Seriously.

She slipped the phone into her bag just as her mother’s voice cut in, light but sharp.

“Who’s that?”

Stella didn’t look up. “It’s him.”

Her mother’s fingers paused mid-scroll.

Her father looked up properly this time, glasses sliding a fraction lower on his nose.

“Him?” her mother echoed, tone perfectly even.

Stella finished tying her shoe before she answered. It gave her three extra seconds to breathe. To steady. To commit.

“Yes,” she said, standing. “My boyfriend.”

The word landed between them, irreversible.

Her mother’s gaze sharpened with interest rather than suspicion, which somehow felt worse. “Did you ask him to come join us for lunch?”

Stella held her mother’s gaze, pulse ticking loud in her ears.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s joining us for lunch.”

Her mother’s smile widened immediately, bright and quick, the way it always did when a new variable entered her mental equation. “Wonderful. I was hoping we’d get to meet him properly.” She shifted upright against the headboard. “And touring us around afterward isn’t a bad idea at all. He knows the city, doesn’t he?”

“He’s… familiar with it,” Stella replied carefully. Not a lie. Just selectively framed truth.

Her father leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “How long has he been studying here?”

“A little while,” Stella said. She reached for her bag, more for something to do with her hands than necessity. “Long enough to know his way around.”

Her mother tilted her head, studying her daughter now instead of her phone. “You’ve been vague,” she said mildly. “That’s new.”

Stella forced a small smile. “I don’t want to get details wrong.”

That earned her a soft laugh. “Fair enough.”

Her father hummed in agreement, attention drifting back to his screen, interest noted but not yet interrogative. “Architecture students tend to be busy. Long hours.”

“Yes,” Stella said, relief loosening her shoulders. “He works a lot.”

Her mother’s eyebrows lifted. “Works and studies?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” her mother said, clearly pleased by this detail, “that says something about his character.”

Stella nodded, because it did. Just not in the way her mother imagined.

Silence settled again.

Her phone buzzed once more in her bag.

She froze.

Her mother noticed instantly. “Another message?”

Stella hesitated for exactly one breath, then nodded. “He’s asking for the address.”

“Send it,” her mother said cheerfully. “We don’t want him late.”

Stella pulled out her phone, fingers steady now in that strange way that came after panic burned itself out. She forwarded the restaurant location, then typed quickly.

Stella: They’re curious but polite so far. I’ll send you the address soon. Thank you again. I owe you… a lot.

She slipped the phone away before doubt could argue back.

Her mother stood, smoothing down her blouse. “We should leave a little early. Just in case.”

Her father nodded, already reaching for his coat. “Good idea.”

Stella rose as well, heart steadying into something sharper, more focused. Two hours ago, this had felt like free fall. Now it felt like a tightrope. Still dangerous, but at least she could see where to place her feet.

Stella slipped the familiar weight of her bag over her shoulder, moving around the room with quiet efficiency. Her mother checked the mirror one last time, adjusting her earrings. Her father tucked his phone into his coat pocket, already composed, already prepared.

Prepared for what, Stella wasn’t sure.

The elevator ride down was mercifully short. No one spoke. The mirrored walls reflected three versions of the same moment, each one holding something different.

Anticipation. Appraisal. Anxious.

When the doors opened, the lobby greeted them again with its layered noise and polished calm. Stella scanned the space without meaning to, her eyes moving instinctively toward the entrance, toward every tall silhouette that crossed the threshold.

Not yet, she told herself. Breathe.

They stepped outside into the daylight, the air cooler than she expected, carrying the faint scent of coffee and stone and something floral she couldn’t place. Her mother linked her arm through Stella’s again, lighter this time, almost companionable.

“You seem nervous,” she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Stella kept her gaze forward. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

That was true, too. Just not in the way her mother would imagine.

Her father hailed a taxi, opening the door for them with practiced ease. As they settled inside, the city began to slide past the windows. Narrow streets, balconies heavy with plants people mid-conversation, mid-life.

Stella’s phone buzzed once in her bag.

Her pulse jumped, but this time she let herself reach for it.

(YN): Got it. I’ll be there a little early.

She exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the phone for half a second longer than necessary.

Stella: Thank you.

She added nothing else. There was nothing left to explain.

The taxi slowed near the restaurant, an understated place tucked between two taller buildings. Clean lines. Warm light visible through the windows. Respectable, as her father had said.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Stella’s mother glanced around approvingly. “This is nice.”

Her father nodded. “Good choice.”

Stella swallowed, eyes lifting toward the entrance.

And then she saw him.

He stood just off to the side, hands tucked into his coat pockets, posture relaxed but attentive, as if he’d been waiting long enough to settle into patience. He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, gaze finding hers immediately.

For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed.

Relief hit first, sharp and dizzying. Gratitude followed close behind, heavy and complicated. And beneath it all, something quieter she didn’t have time to name.

Their eyes met.

He smiled, small and genuine, and stepped forward.

Stella’s mother noticed at the same time, her grip tightening ever so slightly on Stella’s arm.

“Well,” she said softly, curiosity sparking. “That must be him.”

Stella nodded, heart steady now in that strange, resolute way that came right before impact.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s him.”

And as he came closer, as introductions loomed just seconds away, Stella realized something she hadn’t expected.

She was looking forward to this.

Maybe it was the relief of her lie staying intact washing over herself again or maybe it was because he didn’t ditch her but she was happy he was here.

“Hello, you must be Stella’s parents.” (YN) greeted them, bowing his head down slightly.

Her mother’s smile switched on immediately, bright and assessing all at once, the kind that gathered information even as it welcomed.

“Yes,” she said, releasing Stella’s arm to step forward. “We are. You must be—”

“(YN),” he said smoothly, straightening. His voice was calm, warm without being overly calm. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

Her father studied him over the rim of his glasses, a quiet, measuring look Stella knew too well. After a second, he extended a hand. “Thank you for joining us.”

(YN) took it without hesitation, grip firm but not aggressive. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Stella stood there, momentarily unmoored. Watching him navigate this felt surreal, like seeing a stranger step into a role she’d written in pencil and somehow perform it in ink. He fit in a little too right.

Her mother’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and curious. “You’re early,” she noted.

“I didn’t want to keep anyone waiting,” he replied easily. “I know reservations can be strict.”

Her father nodded, approving. “They can be.”

Stella felt it stretch and moved instinctively, stepping closer to (YN), close enough that her sleeve brushed his coat. Not quite a touch. Almost.

“This is the place I mentioned,” she said, unnecessarily. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

He glanced down at her, just for a moment. Something passed between them then.

“It looks great,” he said. “Good choice.”

Her mother smiled at that, clearly pleased. “Shall we go in?”

The host greeted them at the door, checking the reservation and leading them inside. The restaurant was quiet but not empty, soft conversation layered over clinking cutlery and low music. They were guided to a corner table near the window.

As they sat, Stella became acutely aware of everything. The way her mother chose the seat with the best view. The way her father placed his napkin with precision. The way (YN) waited a fraction of a second before sitting, letting her parents settle first.

Points earned.

She could almost hear it.

Menus were handed out.

“So,” her mother began, folding hers neatly. “Stella tells us you’re studying here.”

(YN) nodded. “Yes. And working as well.”

Her father’s interest sharpened. “That’s demanding.”

“It can be,” he agreed. “But I like staying busy.”

“What do you study?” her mother asked.

Stella held her breath.

“Architecture,” he said, without missing a beat.

Her father hummed, thoughtful. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” her mother asked.

“The discipline,” he replied. “The patience.”

Her mother laughed softly. “You’ve known him all of ten minutes.”

Her father smiled faintly. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

They shared a laugh.

Stella stared down at her menu, words blurring slightly. The lie was still standing.

And yet.

She glanced up.

(YN) caught her eye again, just briefly, and this time there was something new there. A quiet steadiness. As if he were telling her, without words, that he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere. That whatever happened next, she could handle it.

Then her mother asked the question.

“How did you meet our daughter?”

Stella felt a sharp pin pressed just under the skin. She didn’t look up from her menu. She didn’t trust the look on her face yet.

(YN), however, didn’t hesitate.

“We met by chance,” he said. Simple. Clean. True enough to be dangerous.

Her mother tilted her head, interested. “By chance?”

“Yes,” Without hesitation, Stella continued, tone matching his. “We met online, he messaged me first.”

(YN) gave a small, knowing nod at her explanation, letting her claim stand without comment. His eyes flicked briefly to her parents, warm but neutral, as if silently signaling that he’d back her up.

Her mother’s smile widened, curiosity still dancing in her gaze. “Ah, online,” she said lightly. “That explains a lot these days. So many young people meet that way now.” She leaned back slightly, taking in the detail.

Her father nodded, thoughtful but neutral. “Technology makes the world smaller,” he said. “Convenient, I suppose.”

Stella exhaled silently, the tension in her shoulders loosening fractionally. The lie hadn’t cracked, and (YN) hadn’t stumbled. It was enough. For now.

“And you’ve been talking long enough to decide he’s… a good influence?” her mother asked lightly, arching an eyebrow at Stella, clearly probing without pressing too hard.

“Yes,” Stella replied, steadier than she felt. “He’s… reliable. Smart. Thoughtful.” Words carefully chosen. Honest enough in sentiment, vague enough in fact.

Her father gave a small hum of approval. “Good traits. That’s important.”

(YN) remained quiet, hands resting calmly on his lap, but the corner of his mouth tilted in a near-smile as if silently agreeing with her. Stella felt a flicker of reassurance, strange and calming.

The waiter arrived then, offering water and taking drink orders, giving them a momentary reprieve from the carefully choreographed conversation. Stella sipped her water slowly, glancing at (YN), who caught her eye with that same quiet steadiness.

She realized, for the first time since she’d concocted this lie, that having him here made the act of deception feel oddly bearable. Not easy, not comfortable, but somehow manageable.

-

When lunch was over, they stepped back out into the street, the door closing behind them with a soft finality. The air felt different now, lighter and less suffocating than before. Or maybe Stella was the one who had changed, her shoulders no longer drawn up around her ears, her breathing no longer shallow.

The city rushed back in around them.

Tourists clustered in loose groups, cameras swinging from their necks. Locals weaved through the gaps with practiced ease, coats brushing past, conversations flowing in a dozen overlapping languages. Somewhere nearby, an accordion sighed its way through a melody Stella couldn’t recognize.

Her mother paused, looking around with renewed energy. “Since we’re already out,” she said, “we might as well walk a bit.”

Her father nodded. “The Seine is close. We can cross one of the bridges.”

Stella’s heart skipped, not with fear this time, but something quieter. Anticipatory.

They walked together, the four of them falling into an easy formation. Her parents slightly ahead, absorbed in their own conversation. Stella and (YN) just behind, close enough that their arms brushed occasionally when the sidewalk narrowed.

Neither of them moved away.

The river came into view gradually, the city opening around it like a held breath finally released. Sunlight caught on the surface of the water, broken into fragments by passing boats. Stone bridges arched across it, solid and unhurried, carrying centuries without complaint.

They stopped near one of the pedestrian bridges.

“This one,” her mother said, pointing. “It’s pretty.”

It was. Iron railings lined with locks of every shape and color, some new and gleaming, others dulled by time and weather. Names etched. Initials carved. Dates scratched in with shaky hands. Promises hanging in quiet rows, clinking softly when the breeze passed through.

Stella slowed.

“Oh,” her mother said, delighted. “They still do this.”

Her father adjusted his glasses. “Love locks.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Couples write their names, lock them on, and throw the key into the river.”

Stella felt heat bloom just under her skin. Of all places.

Her mother turned back toward them, eyes bright. “Did you bring one?”

Stella blinked. “A lock?”

Her mother laughed. “Of course not. But there’s a little vendor nearby. I saw one earlier.”

Her father hummed. “Overpriced, but harmless.”

Before Stella could form a response, her mother was already moving. “I’ll be quick.”

She was gone before Stella could stop her.

Stella exhaled, rubbing her thumb against the strap of her bag. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” (YN) said quietly.

She looked at him.

He was watching the river, expression blank, hands resting loosely in his coat pockets. There was no tension in him. No visible hesitation. Just that same steady presence he’d carried through lunch, through every question and careful glance.

“I’m sorry,” she said, softer now. “This might be… awkward.”

He glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s just a lock.”

She nodded, though her pulse said otherwise.

Her parents returned a minute later, her mother holding up a small brass lock with a satisfied grin. “Here.”

She pressed it into Stella’s hand before she could protest.

“Go on,” her mother urged. “It’s romantic.”

Stella’s fingers closed around the cool metal.

She hesitated, then looked at (YN).

He met her gaze.

“If you’d rather not,” he said, low enough that her parents couldn’t hear, “we don’t have to.”

Stella swallowed.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We can.”

They stepped closer to the railing together. The locks clinked softly as Stella found an empty space between two older ones, their metal worn smooth by time and touch.

Her mother leaned in. “What will you write?”

Stella hesitated again, marker hovering.

Names felt like too much. Too permanent. Too dishonest.

She wrote their initials instead. Simple. Unassuming. Easy to miss among the hundreds already there.

She handed the marker to (YN).

He took it, adding one small line beneath the letters. A date.

Today.

Something in her chest tightened.

They clicked the lock shut together. The sound was soft, but it landed.

Her mother clasped her hands. “Now the key.”

Stella reached for it, fingers brushing his as he let go at the same time. The contact was brief. Accidental. Electric in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

She leaned over the railing and dropped the key.

It flashed once in the sunlight, then vanished into the river.

Her parents stepped back, satisfied, already turning to point out a boat passing beneath the bridge.

Stella stayed where she was for a moment longer.

“That was convincing,” she murmured.

(YN) looked at the lock, then back at her. “Was it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Below them, the Seine kept moving. Carrying secrets.

Carrying promises.

Carrying keys no one would ever retrieve.

-

They spent the rest of the day moving through the city at an unhurried pace, like there was nowhere they urgently needed to be.

After the bridge, Stella’s parents led the way along the river, stopping whenever something caught their interest.

A street performer with a violin.

A bookstall tucked under the trees.

A café window filled with pastries her mother insisted on photographing.

(YN) stayed close, attentive without hovering, answering questions when they came, offering observations when it felt natural.

He walked on the side closest to the street without thinking about it. When Stella lagged behind, he slowed too.

They crossed another bridge, then another, the afternoon stretching long and golden.

Her father asked about buildings they passed, about old facades and modern glass tucked between them.

(YN) pointed things out quietly, explaining why a structure was designed in a certain way, why another felt out of place. It didn’t feel like a performance, rather it felt like instinct.

At some point, her parents drifted ahead again, caught up in their own conversation.

Stella and (YN) walked side by side in the hush that followed.

They didn’t talk much then. They didn’t need to.

By early evening, her parents decided they were tired. There were plans for an early morning, museums they wanted to see. They thanked (YN) again, sincerely this time, her mother squeezing his arm in a way that felt almost fond. Her father nodded, approval settled and solid.

When they parted ways outside the hotel, the day finally loosened its grip on Stella.

The lobby was quieter at night. Dimmer. Softer around the edges.

They stood near the entrance, suddenly unsure how to end something that hadn’t been supposed to mean this much.

“I really don’t know how to thank you,” Stella said.

“You already did,” he replied, then paused. “But if you insist.”

She smiled, reached into her bag, and pulled out a slim, new notebook. Clean pages. Untouched. Along with it, a fountain pen, simple and cheap yet well-made.

“For your sketches,” she said. “And… for today.”

He took them carefully, like they mattered.

“Where did you…” he said.

“I saw a stall while you were talking to my parents about the Eiffel tower, grabbed the first thing that resembled the one I ruined.”

“I see. I guess I couldn’t say no to this.” He looked at her eyes, raising the notebook and pen slung to its strap.

“Nope, just take it. I’ll feel better after forcing a stranger to be my boyfriend for the day.” Her eyes drifted somewhere else, brushing strands of her hair back.

Silence settled between them.

She looked up then hesitated, then nodded toward the elevators. “I think I’ll go, they might be looking for me.”

He nodded right back, a smile growing at his lips as she walked away. “Goodnight, Stella.”

They went their separate ways after that.

Soon, things would go back to normal. Stella and her parents would fly back to Korea and he would get back to living a normal life as a college student.

And that would be the end of all of this…

right?