Page 24 of From Paris to Seoul

When I stepped back into the studio, Baekhyun had already changed into his pajamas, looking surprisingly comfortable on the floor with just a duvet.

“See? It’s just like sleeping on a traditional futon,” he said with a smile. “And it’s actually good for your back.”

I scoffed, settling into the sofa-bed. “Young people like you don’t know anything about back pain yet.”

He let out a laugh before standing up briefly to turn off the light. The only illumination left came from a small gap between the window and the curtain—the soft glow of the Parisian night spilling into the tiny room.

A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. “Hey, Seo-yeon?” His voice was quieter now. “I’m sorry about earlier… for giving you that cigarette. I think that’s what made you sick. I have to admit, I was a bit high. That was a shitty thing to do.”

High?

Oh.

So it wasn’t a normal cigarette after all.

“It’s fine,” I replied after a pause. “I said yes, so it’s not entirely on you.”

And besides, for the first time in a long while, I had felt truly alive—caught up in sensations I never imagined possible.

But was it really the cigarette?

Or was it Baekhyun—his lips, his breath, the way he had ‘transferred’ the smoke to me?

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just the cigarette I had wanted.

I had wanted his lips on mine.

Desperate to distract myself, I blurted out, “Do you get high like that often?” Even as I asked, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“No, it was my first time,” he admitted from beneath the sofa bed. “I bought the cigarette from some guy outside the nightclub. I shouldn’t have—who knows what he put in it?”

I sighed, relieved that he wasn’t some kind of addict. Thinking back to the past few days in Paris with him, I realized, “I haven’t actually seen you smoke that much.”

“Yeah, I only do it occasionally—kind of like drinking. A social smoker, I guess,” he replied. “It’s silly, really. You burn your money and your health… I should probably quit while I can.” He let out a small sigh.

“My dad was a heavy smoker,” I said. “Then one day, he had a health scare—almost like a mini heart attack. The doctor told him he had to quit, or he wouldn’t make it. He also had to give up red meat, which was probably the hardest thing he’s ever done,” I added with a scoff.

“That’s lucky for him… and lucky for you too,” Baekhyun murmured sleepily. A pause. Then, softer, “I just wish I could see my dad again. Even just once…”

His breathing slowed, turning steady. He must have been exhausted.

I peeked down and found him already asleep. He really could sleep anywhere, couldn’t he? “Good night…” I whispered, closing my eyes and hoping sleep would find me too.

***

I woke up suddenly to the sound of muffled voices and faint music from next door. For a few seconds, I couldn’t understand why I was hearing other people’s conversations in my room. But then it hit me—I wasn’t in my room. I wasn’t even at my hotel. I was in Baekhyun’s tiny studio. In Paris.

As the realization sank in, I glanced down and found Baekhyun curled up on the duvet in what had to be the most uncomfortable position possible. His limbs were too long for the cramped space on the floor, forcing him to tuck his legs in a tight fetal position.

Despite that, he was fast asleep, his breathing deep and even.

Judging by the soft pinkish glow outside, I had only slept for a few hours. And now that the sun was rising, maybe it was time to head back to my hotel—and let Baekhyun have his bed back.

The thought made sense—especially considering I had a perfectly comfortable, empty hotel room already paid for.

I moved slowly, careful not to step on him, and reached for my bag on the table. As quietly as possible, I slipped into my coat.

A drowsy murmur broke the silence. “Seo-yeon?” His voice was soft and groggy, one eye still closed.

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