Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

14 | Focus

VERA

_

HE'S A SIREN, THAT'S WHAT HE IS.

An unrealistic image of perfection with the ability to draw me in with only the sound of his voice, but he chooses to use it blindly. Like it's unintentional. A simple slip of the tongue, and yet he makes me feel like there's hope when there's not.

Timothée's a siren, and he wants to see me drown.

It only took a momentary glance over the top of my laptop, and I was graced with the sight of him sprawled out on his bed, his head hanging off the mattress limply as he fiddled with the glass shard on his necklace. It was barely afternoon. The top buttons of his shirt were cast off to the side, displaying the pale skin of his chest, and his hair was tousled over his eyes as he mumbled spiritless words under his breath.

It was Saturday.

The day of The Scam, which was what Sam called it, and I decided I'd call it that too.

Yesterday night, Toni dragged me out to this underground club her girlfriend found—yes, girlfriend, Lizzy popped the label question while they were sharing a croissant—and I spent the entire morning trying to wash the smell of paint, sweat, and humid heat out of my hair. I wasn't going to be going clubbing again anytime soon.

"Timothée," I said, snapping my laptop closed.

His eyes fluttered over towards me, still hanging upside down on the bed. Sliding the glass shard between his teeth, he gave me a muffled, "hmph?"

"What time is it?"

"Not sure."

"Shouldn't we be meeting Avery and Sam soon?" I mumbled, tapping my fingers against his desk, "I thought we agreed to meet them at noon, and it's nearly two."

As soon as those words left my mouth, Timothée opened his mouth with a shocked gasp, nearly choking on the shard of his necklace as it slipped past his lips and down his throat. Coughing himself back to reality, his cheeks were flustered red as he sat up to look at me.

"They're going to kill me," he said sharply, although it seemed like he was stating a well known fact, "I lost track of time."

I smirked, beginning to shove my stuff into my bag. "That's very professional of you."

"Sarcasm isn't needed, Vera."

"But I'll still use it."

Giving him a snarky look, I swung the straps of my backpack onto my shoulders preparing to make my way to the door. I'd have to run over to my apartment to fix up my appearance before heading out for The Scam. I was supposed to seduce a rich man, obviously, and my current yellow romper certainly wouldn't do the trick. But Timothée grabbed my wrist before I made it through the doorway.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked.

"Home," I said.

"Why?"

"I have to get ready for the plan, remember?"

"We've got no time for that," he huffed, tugging me back into the room. Nodding towards the bed, he went to shuffle around in his dresser. Some of the drawers hadn't been touched throughout my entire consistency of visits, yet now I was seeing him shuffling through them like it was my business entirely. He mumbled some off-handed words to me. "I'll take care of it."

Exactly what he was going to take care of was unbeknownst to me, but all questions protruded out of my mind as soon as I saw him return to the bed with a small mahogany box. Sitting down across from me, he unclasped the locks and popped it open, revealing a neatly packed container of...