Olivier

Dear diary,
This trip has been… wild.
I’m writing this from the airplane on my way to Peru, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to get this down — before it fades, before the dream slips away.After finishing a job in London, I spontaneously booked a train to Paris. Just a quick adventure, I told myself. Nothing big.
I took my seat, opened my book, and tried to relax — and then I saw him.Brown hair, pale skin, soft features like he belonged in a painting.
He was walking down the aisle of the train, searching for his seat. I watched, heart racing, silently begging the universe to put him in my booth.And then… it did.He sat right in front of me.We exchanged polite introductions.
His name was Olivier, said with that impossibly thick and charming French accent. He worked in finance, on his way to visit his parents in the countryside for the weekend.There was something magnetic between us.
We kept talking, slowly, shyly. Our fingers brushed occasionally across the table. Tiny sparks. But neither of us dared to cross that invisible line.As the ride neared its end, we both ordered coffee and spoke more freely. Laughed more. Got bolder.
When his stop arrived, he handed me his business card and said, “Call me, if you’d like.”
I blushed, nodded, and said I would.Then he was gone.And I stayed, clutching the card like a fragile lifeline — until the train jolted suddenly, sending hot coffee flying across the table.The card was ruined.
His name blurred. His number gone.
Just like that, my brief chance with Olivier disappeared into the blur of Paris.I spent the next hours wandering the streets, hoping — foolishly — that fate would be on my side.
Nothing. The sun began to set. My feet ached. I finally sat down on a bench, trying not to cry.Then I heard my name.I looked up — and there he was.
Olivier. Like a dream walking toward me. That same calm beauty, that quiet confidence. He didn’t say anything. I stood up, stammering apologies, trying to explain the card, the coffee—He raised a finger to my lips.
“Shh,” he whispered.
Then he kissed me. Deeply. Passionately. Right there, in the heart of Paris.
And I melted into him.That night at his apartment was… something else.He threw me gently onto the bed, stripping off his clothes like he owned the moment. Then, standing above me, he looked at me like I was art — something to admire.
“Take yours off,” he said.I obeyed.He crawled over me slowly, like a predator playing with anticipation, lips brushing my skin, mouth trailing down my neck.
He lifted my legs and pressed against me, and I could feel every inch of his hunger.
It was intense. Tender. Raw.
We made love for hours, until my body gave in to exhaustion.The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee — and the sight of him standing above the bed, shirtless, in soft grey boxer briefs, holding a mug and smirking.
“Wake up, lazy boy,” he said with that accent that could melt stone.We spent the day together, strolling through quiet alleyways, sipping espresso in hidden cafés, weaving through open-air markets, tasting cheese and fresh fruit like locals.
It was the kind of Paris I’d never known — not the tourist version, but the romantic, lived-in one.
The one you see when you're falling in love.But the clock doesn’t stop.
And time always catches up with magic.By the end of the day, we knew — this was it.
One last kiss. Long. Lingering. Final.
He walked away to return to his charming, beautiful life.And this time… I saved his number.Olivier.
My French lover.
My Paris chapter.
And a memory I’ll carry all the way to Peru.