Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

4 | What's The Catch?

VERA

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TONI WOULD KILL ME if she knew what I was doing.

Not only did I agree to meet a stranger for a strange offer, that very stranger was the guy she warned me about. It was in the heat of a moment, something you really shouldn't blame me for, and my mind was set on finishing the novel I'd been pushing aside for so long. I took Timothée's offer for my own benefit, not for his.

I just wondered what would happen, that's all.

It was debatable if I could even survive the first ten minutes alone with him, less so in a 'he'll murder me' way, but because his personality is far too brash and charming to ever mesh well with mine. I like simplicity—a straightforward answer that saves time and worry—but yet here I am, getting dragged along by someone who spoke in metaphors and symbols alone.

By someone who I barely knew.

Timothée held true to his statement earlier this morning, his familiar brown curls already lingering outside the window of the shop before we closed. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his grey pants, the tip of his nose tinted pink in the chilly Parisian air, and he occasionally would nod politely at a passerby.

He made a point not to look into the window, as if he was trying to prove that he wasn't waiting for me and just happened to be in the area.

It was that aloof behavior of his I found slightly unnerving. Was he really so unbothered by everything, that he could linger outside of a bakery shop window and not bother to come inside? Maybe he was trying to be respectful—not trying to pressure me into thinking I needed to hurry or rush, or making me uncomfortable by staring. But that was the other problem; I couldn't tell what his motives were in anything he did.

His reservation contradicted his vociferous mouth.

So as I pushed open the glass door to leave Plaisirs De Bella's, I let the wind catch the strands of my hair without bothering to push it behind my shoulders. If he didn't seem to care for the little things, I shouldn't bother with mine. Yet even so, I felt completely ridiculous approaching him. Almost unworthy.

"Timothée," I said curtly, attracting his attention, "are you ready?"

As I came to a stop in front of him, standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk, his eyes flickered towards me with a smirk creased upon his lips. He was chewing on a wooden toothpick, the thin stick clenched between his teeth as his tongue flicked it up and down. Mesmerizing, but not the time to accidentally get caught staring for too long.

"I should be asking you that question," he grinned, sliding the pick out of his mouth, "I know this city more than you ever will."

I shrugged. "I'd hope so."

"Then I'll try not to let your hopes down."

"Where are we going?"

Timothée fluttered his eyelashes innocently, cocking his head towards the winding sidewalk behind him. A stray curl fell over his eyes as he did so, and I had the sudden urge to reach out and brush it aside. Thankfully, he did it himself. Even the slightest move from me would have boosted his ego into thinking I would have done it out of infatuation—and that's the last thing I wanted him thinking.

"Marché Mouffetard," he said, beginning to walk away from the bakery, "if you want to know Paris, find the busiest place and immerse yourself into life."

I quickly followed behind him. "And I can do that there?"

"Ouais, you hear the conversations, you fill your senses with all things French," he enunciated, his hands clasped behind his back, "and the best part?"