Jennie reached for her hand before she could finish, gloved fingers brushing against hers, sparking fire through the contact. "Just an hour. No one will know."
Y/N should have said no.
Should have reminded her of the risks, of the headlines waiting to devour even a whisper of scandal. But the way Jennie was looking at her, alive, unguarded, begging her to step into this fragile pocket of freedom, made the word impossible.
That was all it took.
The streets were cooler at night, Paris hushed beneath the glow of lamps. They moved fast at first, hoodies low, masks up, sneakers slapping against cobblestones. But the further they got from the hotel, the slower Jennie's steps became, like she could finally breathe.
They slipped onto the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in the city. Y/N stopped at the rail, leaning to look at the river shimmering below. Jennie came up beside her, their shoulders brushing, and then, suddenly, Jennie's hand slid into hers.
Y/N froze.
The world was empty around them, no cameras, no fans, just the hum of the Seine and the echo of their breaths. And Jennie was holding her hand. Not like a mistake. Not like an accident. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/N's chest burned, but she didn't pull away. She squeezed instead, soft and sure.
Jennie laughed, quiet, real, bubbling out like champagne fizzing loose after being corked too long. Y/N found herself laughing too, leaning against the rail with her, their joined hands hidden in shadows but blazing like a secret flame.
On Rue Saint-Honoré, they ducked into a bakery still open late, pink awning drooping slightly over the doorway. Jennie pointed at boxes like she was a tourist instead of someone whose face was on billboards two streets over.
Outside, they sat on the curb, masks tugged down just enough to taste. Jennie licked frosting from her thumb, eyes crinkling when Y/N called her spoiled. She shot back, "Research," grinning wide enough that Y/N swore she'd never seen anything more beautiful.
Later, they wandered to the Seine. The water stretched quiet and endless, lampposts glowing gold over the stone banks. They sat on a bench, the city alive around them but somehow far away.
Jennie leaned into Y/N's side, head finding her shoulder like it belonged there. Y/N didn't move, didn't breathe too hard, afraid to shatter the perfection of it.
"This doesn't feel real," Jennie whispered at last.
Y/N turned, cheek brushing her hair. "Maybe it doesn't have to be."
Jennie tilted her head, eyes glinting in the lamplight, and for a second Y/N thought she might kiss her, right there, in the open, Paris watching. Instead, Jennie just smiled, soft and secret, and tucked herself closer.
That night became theirs.
Not the runway shows, not the flashing bulbs, not the hotel suites with their gold-plated ceilings. Paris didn't belong to the cameras or the endless hum of schedules.
It belonged to them.
To the way their sneakers scuffed against cobblestones as they ducked through quiet side streets. To the laughter they muffled behind masks when they almost tripped running across an empty crosswalk. To the ridiculousness of sitting on a curb with a box of pastel macarons balanced between them, shoulders brushing every time one of them reached for another. To the way Jennie's hand found Y/N's. Tentative at first, then certain when Y/N didn't pull away. Fingers twined in the shadows, unshaken by the world that had forced them to hide everywhere else.
For the first time, they weren't the idol and the manager. They were just two girls in a city too big to care, holding on like they had every right to. Paris wrapped itself around them, vast, eternal, theirs. It wasn't just a city anymore. It was freedom. It was safety. It was the proof that whatever this was, whatever they were building, it was real.
Paris became their city. A memory carved so deep it would never fade, even when everything else unraveled.
And that memory stayed with them. Through airports and rehearsals, through sleepless nights and the endless churn of preparation, it lingered, that quiet bridge, those stolen hours where they weren't hiding, weren't pretending. Whenever Y/N caught Jennie's hand brushing hers in a backseat, or their eyes locking across a dressing room, Paris hummed like a secret only they knew.
And then October came.