Back to Mi-Kyung's and Min-seok's Honeymoon
They ate crepes almost every day—standing at tiny street carts, sharing one plate, feeding each other bites. Mi-Kyung would lick Nutella off his thumb, eyes locked on his, making him groan softly. "You're trying to kill me," he'd mutter, and she'd laugh and kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting chocolate and him.
Boat rides on the Seine became their nightly ritual. They always chose the back of the boat, sitting on the wooden bench with her legs draped over his lap, his arm around her shoulders.
The city lights reflected on the water like scattered stars. They kissed lazily, deeply, uncaring who saw—long, slow kisses that made other couples on the boat glance away, suddenly self-conscious about their own stiff, awkward pecks.
One night, as Mi-Kyung and Min-seok sat on the upper deck of the Seine cruise boat, wrapped in each other, the young French couple a few seats away couldn't stop staring.
At first it was just glances—then whispers—then the girl's voice rose sharply, cutting through the gentle hum of the boat and the distant accordion music.
"Why don't you ever kiss me like that?" she snapped at her boyfriend, arms crossed tight over her chest.
The boyfriend—tall, skinny, wearing a beanie—flinched. "What? We kiss all the time!"
"Not like 'that'," she hissed, nodding toward Mi-Kyung and Min-seok. "Look at them. He holds her like she's the most precious thing in the world. He kisses her like he's starving for her. And she… she just melts into him. When's the last time you held me like you'd die if you let go?"
The boyfriend's face reddened. "Oh come on, Sophie, don't start. They're just… showing off. Look at her—she's older, probably desperate for attention. And him? He's just playing the perfect boyfriend card. It's fake."
Sophie's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Fake? Are you blind? Look how gentle he is. He keeps checking if she's cold, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. He feeds her bites of crepe like she's a baby bird. He looks at her like she hung the moon. And you? You barely look up from your phone half the time."
The boyfriend scoffed, voice rising. "Oh please. At least I'm realistic. You think I don't notice how you stare at guys like him? Tall, handsome, all mysterious and gentle. Meanwhile I'm sitting here trying to hold your hand and you pull away like I've got cooties."
Sophie laughed bitterly. "Hold my hand? You grope me in public like I'm some toy. You never just… hold me. Never whisper sweet things. Never make me feel safe and wanted the way he makes her feel. Look—right now he's kissing her forehead like it's the most natural thing in the world. When did you last do that without expecting something else?"
He leaned forward, voice dropping to an angry whisper. "Maybe if you looked like her I would. She's got that… mature, sexy thing going on. Curves in all the right places. You? You're always complaining about your stomach or your thighs. How am I supposed to worship you when you're constantly hiding under baggy sweaters?"
Sophie's face flushed with hurt and fury. "So it's my fault? Because I don't look like some fantasy older woman? Maybe if you acted like him—actually cared, actually listened, actually made me feel beautiful instead of critiquing my body—I wouldn't feel the need to hide!"
The boyfriend threw his hands up. "And maybe if you let me touch you without making me feel like a creep, I wouldn't have to beg for scraps. Look at them—they're practically dry-humping on a public boat and no one cares. She's sitting in his lap like it's normal. You won't even let me put my arm around you for more than two minutes."
Sophie's voice cracked. "Because you don't make me feel safe! You make me feel judged. He makes her feel adored. There's a difference."
Mi-Kyung, who had been quietly listening while nestled against Min-seok's neck, finally couldn't hold back a tiny giggle. She hid her face deeper into his collar, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Min-seok smirked, glanced over at the arguing couple, then turned back to Mi-Kyung. Without a word, he cupped her face gently and kissed her again—deeper this time, slow and deliberate, pouring every ounce of devotion into it. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other rested protectively over her small baby bump.
The French couple's argument sputtered out mid-sentence. Sophie stared, mouth slightly open. Her boyfriend deflated, shoulders slumping as he muttered, "See? That's what I'm talking about…"
Sophie elbowed him hard. "Shut up. Just… shut up."
Mi-Kyung broke the kiss, cheeks flushed, and buried her face in Min-seok's neck again, giggling helplessly. He chuckled low in his throat, kissed her hair, and whispered just for her:
"Let them fight. We've got each other."
She nodded against him, arms tightening. "Always."
The boat continued gliding down the Seine, the city lights reflecting on the water like scattered stars, while behind them a young couple sat in sullen silence—suddenly very aware of everything they were missing.
Paris, the so-called capital of love, quietly became the capital of fights that week. Couples everywhere seemed to suddenly notice how little affection they showed each other compared to the radiant pair who couldn't keep their hands—or lips—off one another. Mi-Kyung and Min-seok didn't notice; they were too busy living in their own bubble.
They wandered into one of Paris's tiny hidden gardens—Jardin des Rosiers-Joseph Migneret, tucked away behind ivy-covered walls in the Marais district. The air smelled of blooming roses and fresh earth, and the small space was quiet, with only a few benches scattered under shady trees.
Mi-Kyung's eyes lit up as they found a sunny spot on a wooden bench, the Eiffel Tower peeking through distant rooftops like a shy promise.
Min-seok pulled out a box of colorful macarons from a nearby patisserie—pistachio, raspberry, vanilla, and chocolate. He handed her the pistachio one first, her favorite. She bit into it slowly, savoring the sweet, nutty flavor, then offered the rest to him.
"Here," she said, holding it to his lips.
He took a bite, but a bit of raspberry dust from another macaron clung to her fingers. He caught her hand gently, licking the dust off with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue, his eyes locked on hers. She shivered, laughing softly.
"You're teasing me," she whispered.
He kissed her fingertip. "Can't help it. You taste better than any macaron."
They fed each other like that—playful bites, stolen kisses between each one—until the box was empty and their fingers were sticky with sugar.
On the bench across from them sat an old man—late seventies, perhaps—wearing a faded beret and a wool coat that had seen better decades. He had been reading a worn paperback, but now the book lay forgotten in his lap. His eyes, soft and cloudy with age, followed them with a quiet, wistful smile.
Mi-Kyung noticed him watching. She paused mid-laugh, cheeks still flushed from Min-seok's teasing, and gave the old man a shy wave.
He lifted a trembling hand in return, the smile deepening into something tender and bittersweet.
"You two…" he said in accented English, voice gentle and cracked with years, "…remind me of my Claire and me. Long ago. We used to sit right here—same bench, same sun. She'd feed me macarons too. Always saved the pistachio for last. Said it was the best one, just for me."
His gaze drifted to the roses climbing the wall, as if seeing memories instead of flowers.
"She'd laugh just like that," he continued softly. "And I'd lick sugar from her fingers, pretending it was an accident. We thought we had forever. Time… it moves faster than we think."
Mi-Kyung's smile softened into something aching and sweet. She leaned her head on Min-seok's shoulder, listening.
The old man looked back at them, eyes glistening now.
"Hold on to each other," he said, voice thick. "Every laugh. Every sticky finger. Every silly kiss in the street. One day you'll be old like me, sitting on a bench alone, remembering. Make sure the memories are worth remembering. Make sure they're full of love like this."
He tapped his chest lightly. "You've got something rare. Don't let go."
Mi-Kyung felt tears prick her eyes. She stood, walked over slowly, and knelt in front of him. Gently, she took his weathered hand in both of hers.
"We won't," she whispered. "Thank you… for reminding us."
The old man patted her head with fatherly love with his free one, smiling through his own tears.
"You're welcome, child. Go make more memories, make as many memories as you can, not all of them have privileges you guys have of making such memories so make the most out of it. And when you're old and gray… come back here. Sit on this bench. Tell Claire I said hello."
Mi-Kyung nodded, throat tight. "We will."
She rose, returned to Min-seok, and sank back into his arms. The old man picked up his book again, but his smile lingered—soft, peaceful, like a man who had just been given a gift he didn't expect.
Min-seok kissed Mi-Kyung's temple, voice low.
"Let's make sure every memory is worth telling someone about someday."
She nodded against his chest, hand finding his.
"Every single one."
They sat a little longer in the garden, wrapped in each other, the old man's words settling over them like a gentle blessing—reminding them that love, when it's real, echoes far beyond the moment. Even into the quiet afternoons of strangers on distant benches, decades later.
Later that evening, they stumbled upon a small jazz club in the Latin Quarter—Le Caveau de la Huchette, a cozy underground spot with dim amber lights, worn wooden floors that creaked underfoot, and a live band already deep into an upbeat swing set.
The crowd was lively but scattered—some couples swaying lazily, others chatting at candlelit tables, a few solo drinkers nodding to the rhythm.
Min-seok didn't hesitate. He took Mi-Kyung's hand and pulled her straight onto the dance floor.
At first they swayed slowly, even as the music picked up tempo—his hands resting low on her waist, her cheek pressed to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him mixed with Paris night air. She closed her eyes, whispering against his shirt, "I could stay like this forever."
He kissed the top of her head. "We will."
But the beat was infectious—bright trumpet, walking bass, drums snapping like fingers. Mi-Kyung stepped back with a sudden grin, eyes sparkling. "Come on—let's really dance!"
She grabbed both his hands and started moving—twirling under his arm, hips swaying to the rhythm. Min-seok laughed, low and delighted, and matched her instantly.
He spun her out, pulled her back in, lifted her off the ground in a playful swing. Mi-Kyung kicked her legs out, dress flaring like a flower, laughing so freely the sound bounced off the stone walls.
The crowd noticed.
A few heads turned. Then more. Smiles spread. A middle-aged couple at the edge of the floor exchanged a look, then stood up—tentatively at first—copying Min-seok and Mi-Kyung's easy rhythm. Another pair joined, then another. Within thirty seconds the dance floor was filling—not packed, but alive.
People who had been sitting stiffly now swayed, laughed, tried spins they hadn't done in years. The band felt the shift—the drummer grinned, the trumpeter leaned into a brighter solo, the bassist slapped the strings harder. The music swelled, feeding off the sudden joy in the room.
By the end of the song, a small but enthusiastic audience had gathered around the edges of the dance floor—patrons, waitstaff, even the bartender leaning over the bar—clapping in time, whistling, cheering as Min-seok dipped Mi-Kyung low, her hair spilling back, both of them laughing breathlessly.
When he brought her back up, he spun her once more and pulled her into his arms; the whole room erupted in applause—loud, warm, genuine.
The club owner—a stout man with a gray mustache—pushed through the crowd, grinning ear to ear.
"You two!" he called, clapping Min-seok on the shoulder. "You lit up my place like fireworks! Drinks on the house—for the rest of the night!"
The band struck up a slower number, but the energy stayed electric. People didn't sit back down right away; they kept moving—some trying to mimic Min-seok's easy lifts, others just swaying together with renewed affection.
A young couple who had been arguing quietly at a corner table now held hands again, the girl laughing as her boyfriend attempted a clumsy twirl. An older pair who had been sitting silently for hours now danced cheek to cheek, eyes shining like they'd rediscovered something they thought was lost.
Mi-Kyung, still catching her breath in Min-seok's arms, blushed at the attention. "We didn't mean to—"
The lead singer leaned down from the stage, mic in hand, grinning. "Don't apologize! You reminded everyone why they came here tonight. This is jazz, baby—this is life. Thank you."
Min-seok bowed his head slightly, arm still around Mi-Kyung's waist. "Thank you for the music. You made the night unforgettable."
The singer laughed. "Come back anytime—you've got a permanent table here."
As they finally stepped off the dance floor, several patrons slipped generous tips into the band's jar—more than usual—smiling at Min-seok and Mi-Kyung like they'd been given a gift. A woman in her fifties touched Mi-Kyung's arm gently as they passed.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "My husband and I… we'd forgotten how to dance like that. You reminded us."
Mi-Kyung's eyes softened. "I'm so glad."
The whole club felt different now—jolly, alive, lighter. Laughter rolled through the room in waves. Strangers toasted each other. Couples who had been sitting apart now sat close, hands touching. Even the bartender was humming along, pouring drinks with extra flourish.
Min-seok pulled Mi-Kyung into a quieter corner booth, both of them still flushed and breathless. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling.
"You make everything brighter," he said softly.
She leaned her forehead against his. "Only because you're here with me."
They stayed until the set ended—dancing one more slow song, then sitting close, heads together, hands linked under the table—two people so wrapped in each other's joy that they accidentally reminded an entire room full of strangers how good love could feel.
And Paris—the city that had seen centuries of romance—felt a little more alive that night because of them.
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