Page 22 of From Paris to Seoul

After a ten or fifteen-minute walk, we arrived at “his place,” which turned out to be a tiny rented studio apartment on the seventh floor—with no elevator.

Already feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous, I was out of breath by the time we finally stepped inside.

It took me a few seconds to process just how small the space was. Everything felt miniature: a two-seater sofa that doubled as a bed, a tiny table in front of it, and a shower squeezed next to the equally tiny ‘kitchen,’ which consisted of a double electric stove. The walls felt like they were pressing in from all directions.

“Wow,” I blurted, unable to hide my surprise.

“Yeah, wow. Welcome to my crib,” he said dryly, a hint of irony in his tone.

Wasting no time, he fished out two packs of instant noodles from his suitcase and set a pot of water on the stove.

“Should I throw everything in?” he asked, holding up the sauce packets and seasoning.

If I were being honest, I rarely ate instant noodles. With a private chef at home, I never needed to—except during my so-called rebellious phase, sneaking off to convenience stores just to eat it like everyone else.

But once again, against my better judgment, I nodded.

The noodles were ready in no time, and the first bite tasted like heaven. I wolfed them down, forgetting just how good instant noodles could be—especially when you’re tipsy and lightheaded.

“Ahh, SO good. Why does it tastethisamazing?” I groaned in appreciation, savoring the last drop of the soup.

Baekhyun watched me with amusement, and let out a small chuckle. “Is this your first time eating instant noodles?”

I rolled my eyes—though, honestly, it wasn’t far from the truth. But I wasn’t about to give him another reason to call meprincess. “Of course not.”

He smirked and went back to finishing his bowl while I got up and wandered around the tiny space. If there was one great thing about this cramped studio, it was the view. The city lights of Paris stretching endlessly beyond the window.

I sighed, pressing my fingertips against the glass. “Maybe I should move here. Lose my passport and just stay. What do you think?” I turned back to him, half-joking.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

“What are you so desperate to escape from?” he asked quietly.

My lips parted before I even realized I was speaking.

“Myself.”

The word hung in the air, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh it off or let the sadness sink in.

Before he could reply, my stomach churned violently, followed by the most grotesque sound imaginable. Oh no. Was it the noodles? Did I eat too fast? Or was it the alcohol? The smoke?

A wave of nausea crashed over me. I gagged, slapped a hand over my mouth, and bolted for the toilet—thankfully, this tiny studio at least had a private one.

Baekhyun followed, his expression shifting to concern. I shook my head desperately, mortified beyond belief, but he didn’t back off. Instead, he hovered beside me, his strong hands steadying my hips just as the inevitable happened—I doubled over and emptied my stomach.

The world tilted slightly as I gasped for air, slumping onto the cold tile like a deflated balloon. My entire body felt drained. Still, Baekhyun stayed beside me, his fingers gently pulling my hair back, keeping it away from the mess.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice was thick with concern. When I didn’t answer, he tried again, gentler this time. “Do you feel better now?”

I barely managed a nod.

“Here, let me get you some water.” He stepped away to fill a cup from the tap.

I groaned, pressing the flush button. My face burned with embarrassment. “It’s… it’s fine,” I muttered, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

It rarely happened; I think the last time I threw up was when I was a kid, after catching a stomach bug along with half my class.

Why did it have to happen now—of all times, in front of Baekhyun?!

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