Three months have passed since that unforgettable night in Paris. Troy stands at the window of his apartment, gazing out at the golden city lights stretching across the Seine. The view still takes his breath away every single time. He has started a part time job at a charming local patisserie, a place that perfectly suits his creative side. Between serving fresh pastries and coffee, he sketches on napkins and captures quiet moments of his daily life.
On the side Troy has become more open with his online presence. He posts pictures, short vlogs, and videos under the series LifeInParis. Fans see him wandering cobblestone streets, enjoying café corners at golden hour, and sharing honest reflections about settling into a new city. His content feels freer now, less guarded than before.
Troy’s best friend Jake has been incredibly supportive from back home in America. He regularly shares Troy’s videos with his friends and buddies, hyping them up in group chats. Jake sends encouraging texts and jumps on spontaneous video calls just to check in and ask how things are going. He laughs when Troy dodges questions about dating life, always ending the call with the same teasing line about Troy living his best Paris chapter.
One quiet evening, Troy stands by the window again, lost in thought. A man approaches slowly from behind. Warm arms wrap around him in a gentle hug. A soft kiss lands on his shoulder, then another on his neck. The embrace feels romantic, familiar, and full of unspoken promises.
Who could it be?
Is it Dylan, back for more?
Is it Elliot, hoping to rekindle something?
Or does a new temptation await Troy in the city of Paris?
Read previous season Here
Episode 1: This Guy Can Wait
Three months had slipped by in Paris like pages turning in a book I never quite finished reading. The city still felt borrowed, a place I had drifted into because my sister needed me, then stayed in because I needed something I couldn't name. The apartment she had rented was small but bright, high enough that the Seine appeared in slivers between rooftops when the light was right. I woke most mornings to the distant clatter of delivery scooters and the smell of fresh bread drifting up from the street below.
I had finally found a rhythm. A part-time job at a small patisserie on Rue de Birague helped. It wasn't much; pouring coffee, arranging croissants in the display case, wiping down the marble counter between rushes but it suited me. The owner, Madame Claire, was kind in that brisk French way and didn't mind when I sketched on the backs of receipt paper during slow hours. I drew window reflections, the curve of a customer's shoulder, the way steam curled from an espresso cup. It felt like breathing again after holding my breath for too long.
On the side I had started posting on the internet more. A series I called ‘LifeInParis’. Nothing polished, just phone videos and photos: me walking under blooming horse chestnuts, sitting on a bench in Place des Vosges with a notebook, the golden hour turning everything soft and warm. I captioned them honestly…sometimes just "still figuring it out" or "Paris keeps surprising me." The comments rolled in from followers who had stuck around since the early days. They felt like quiet company.
Jake, my best friend back in America, was the loudest cheerleader from across the ocean. He texted almost every day, voice notes mostly, his laugh crackling through the speaker like static warmth.
"Troyyy, that video of you eating the pain au chocolat? Legendary. Sent it to the whole group chat. They're all jealous you're out there living like a movie."
I could picture him sprawled on his couch back home, phone propped on his chest, grinning at the screen. He shared my posts with his buddies, the same guys we'd played FIFA with in basements years ago. Sometimes he'd jump on a video call out of nowhere, usually late his time, early mine.
"Troy, man, you look good. Paris agreeing with you?"
I'd laugh, angle the camera so he couldn't see how messy the apartment was. "Yeah. It's... different. Quiet in a good way."
He'd nod, then inevitably ask, "So, anyone special yet? Or you still playing mysterious?"
I'd dodge. Change the subject to his latest work drama or some dumb meme. He'd let it slide, but the question always hung there, gentle but persistent. Jake had always known I was gay since college, casual as telling him I preferred blueberry Pop-Tarts. He never made it weird. That was Jake.
Tonight the apartment was quiet. My sister was on another late shift. I had showered, pulled on only a pair of black boxer briefs, and wandered to the living-room window. The city glittered below, lights strung along the bridges like loose pearls. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, letting the view blur into colors. My reflection stared back…slimmer than I used to be, hair a little longer, eyes tired but clearer.
Then I felt it.
A presence behind me. Slow footsteps I hadn't heard. Warmth at my back before arms even touched me.
Strong hands slid around my waist, pulling me gently against a solid chest. I exhaled, surprised but not startled. One arm banded across my stomach, the other higher, palm flat over my heart. A soft kiss landed on the curve of my shoulder. Then another, higher, at the side of my neck. The lips lingered, warm and deliberate. I felt the brush of stubble, the heat of breath against my skin.
My body reacted before my mind caught up…pulse jumping, skin prickling. The embrace tightened just enough to feel possessive and tender at the same time. A low hum vibrated against my ear, not quite words.
I didn't turn yet. I let the moment stretch, savoring the moment. He knew exactly where to touch to make my knees soften.
The hands moved…one sliding up to cup the back of my neck, thumb brushing the short hairs there, the other drifting lower, fingers tracing the waistband of my underwear. Another kiss, this one open-mouthed, just below my ear. I tilted my head without thinking, giving more skin.
The muscular body behind me pressed closer. I felt the unmistakable hardness against my ass…thick, insistent, separated only by thin fabric. A quiet groan escaped me.
Then the arms turned me slowly.
I looked up.
Dylan.
His face was inches from mine, eyes dark and steady. That same smirk played at the corner of his mouth; the one that used to make me roll my eyes and then melt anyway. Hair damp from a shower, smelling faintly of his gym soap. He wore a fitted black t-shirt and gray sweats that did nothing to hide the impossible bulge.
"Miss me, Spaghetti Noodle?"
His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he'd been holding it in for weeks.
I stared, heart hammering. "Dylan... how did you even—"
"Door was unlocked." He shrugged one shoulder. "Figured you'd be too busy staring at the view to notice."
I laughed despite myself, short and breathless. "You're insane."
"Yeah I am." He leaned in, nose brushing mine. "But you knew it was me."
Before I could answer, his mouth was on mine. Slow at first, almost careful, like he was relearning the shape of me. Then deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slid against mine, tasting faintly of mint and something sharper. One hand cupped my jaw, thumb pressing my lower lip open wider. The other gripped my hip, pulling me flush so I could feel every inch of how hard he was.
I moaned into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt. He walked me backward until my back hit the wall beside the window. The cool plaster contrasted with his heat. He broke the kiss only to drag his mouth down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone.
"Been thinking about this," he muttered against my skin. "Since morning"
I arched when his hand slipped inside my underwear, fingers wrapping around my cock. Firm. Sure. He stroked once, slow, watching my face like he was memorizing every flicker.
"Dylan—"
"Say it." His voice dropped lower. "Say my name like that again."
"Dylan."
He groaned, kissed me harder. His hips rolled, grinding against me. The friction was maddening through fabric.
Then he pulled back just enough to look at me. Eyes searching.
His thumb kept stroking slow circles along my jaw while our foreheads stayed touching.
“Got a call from the brand today,” he murmured, lips brushing mine between words.
I made a small sound, still half-lost in the taste of him.
“They extended the contract.” Another soft kiss, barely there. “More shoots here in Paris.”
He nipped my lower lip lightly.
“Got a longer-term place a few streets over.”
I blinked, brain catching up through the haze. “You’re… staying?”
“For a while.” His thumb brushed my cheek now, gentle but possessive. “Unless you want me gone.”
I shook my head fast. “Fuck. No.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, softer this time, slower, like he was sealing it. “Because I’m not done with you.”
We stayed locked like that for long minutes…kissing slow and deep, hands roaming without urgency. His palms mapped my back, my sides, the dip above my ass. Mine slid under his shirt, tracing the hard ridges of his abs, feeling them flex under my fingers. Breathing each other in. No rush. Just the quiet certainty that this wasn’t a goodbye.
Eventually he pulled back, forehead resting on mine again. His voice came out rough.
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I raised an eyebrow, still catching my breath. “Out?”
“Yeah.” That familiar smirk tugged at his mouth. “I found this really nice restaurant near the street at my new place.”
My stomach flipped at the words. Dinner with Dylan. The same way it had started that night three months ago; the night I chose him over Elliot, the night I said yes to the dinner. And since then I had said yes to countless dinners with him. Some quick and heated in his temporary Paris apartment, some long and lazy with wine and wandering conversations, some just takeout on the couch because neither of us wanted to leave the bed. Dinners had become too common in these three months. Too easy. Too ordinary. Most nights it was just the two of us…eating, touching, fucking, repeating like the city outside didn’t exist. The meals had started feeling like habit, like fuel for whatever came after, rather than something special.
But tonight felt heavier. Sharper. Like the first one all over again.
I turned toward the bedroom to grab clothes, but after two steps I felt it: the insistent throb between my legs. I glanced down…already half-hard just from the kissing, the press of him, the way his voice dropped when he said dinner. Then my eyes flicked lower, to the thick outline straining the front of his gray sweats.
“But what about…?”
Before I could finish the thought, Dylan closed the distance again. One hand caught my hip, the other tilted my chin up. He kissed me hard this time….claiming, filthy, tongue sliding deep until I moaned into his mouth.
When he broke away, his breathing was ragged. Without looking away from my eyes, he reached down, pushed the waistband of his sweats and underwear low enough to free himself. Thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. He gave one slow stroke, letting me see every inch, letting me remember exactly what it felt like inside me.
My mouth went dry. My cock twitched harder against the fabric of my underwear.
He smirked, voice low and teasing. “This big guy can wait till after dinner.”
He tucked himself back in with deliberate slowness, adjusting so the bulge was even more obvious now…thick and unapologetic.
“Shower if you want,” he said, stepping back again. “I’ll go get changed.”
I nodded, legs unsteady as I headed to the bathroom. Under the hot water, I tried to process it all. Dylan here. In Paris. Staying. The hug from behind. The kiss. The promise of another dinner that already felt different from all the ones before.
And somewhere underneath it all, the quiet question that had lingered since the night everything changed still hovered.
What happened next?
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
