Timothée [Sequel!] [Timothée Chalamet]

chapter six. florence.

Timothée. Seeing his face brought back every moment and every feeling from that summer. There was nobody like him. No matter how hard I searched for a love like ours I could never find it.

Sure, there was Carter. I think for a moment maybe I loved him, but it hadn't been like my love for Timothée. Timothée's love was warm kisses on your neck, fingers gliding against your skin wherever you were, always having to touch you. Timothée's love was hidden kisses in the Italian heat in alleyways, escaping from responsibility, dancing drunkenly in the moonlight. How I've missed Timothée's love and his broken Italian.

I was on my way to a small restaurant. He wanted to meet for a brunch of some kind, to talk about everything that happened. I wasn't the home wrecker type, nor was I the envious type. His girlfriend—whatever she was to him— was beautiful. I would be stupid to deny that, but it was no coincidence that she bore so much resemblance to me. He still loved me and I could tell by the way he looked at me when I stood at his door. I still loved him.

I arrived at the restaurant and the hostess had seated me moments before Timothée had walked in with a black scarf wrapped around his neck and serious eyes. He sat in front of me, seeming like he meant business and business only.

"If I'm going to have this conversation with you while you act so cold, I'm going to need a drink," I muttered, summoning the waitress over to us. I ordered myself a mimosa, seeing as it was the only appropriate alcoholic drink to have at this time, and Timothée ordered the same. He quickly unwrapped the thick scarf from around his neck along with his coat, before draping it over the back of his chair.

"I'm not trying to be cold. You have to understand how hard this is for me. I mean—you ruined the beginning of a very good relationship for me, and I was already in trouble to begin with!"

"How was I supposed to know?" I began with narrowed eyes, "How was I supposed to know about how quickly you moved on from me. It wasn't like Carter told me about the little girl!"

"Little girl? Listen to yourself Florence... you're jealous."

I had almost gasped. Jealous? The waitress, who had hesitantly walked over in the midst of our argument had carefully set down our drinks as well as a pitcher. "I'll come back."
I had taken a generous sip, examining the way Timothée stared down at his drink in order to avoid my eyes. "Why did you even come here then?" I questioned sadly. I felt betrayed.

"Because—" He sighed as if he were beginning to let his guard down, "because as much as I hate to admit it, I think I still love you." Timothée chugged the rest of his glass, sadness in his eyes and was quick to pick up the pitcher and pour more.

I had known he still loved me. He wouldn't come to meet with me if he didn't have a drop of care and feelings left for me. I couldn't help but smile and inch my hand over to his before gently placing it on top. I missed his warm hands. He was hesitant, but he kept his hand there, staring down at the both of ours touching.

"So what will you do about it?"

"I...I don't know. I-I mean I know what I have to do. I know what's right."

"So what is right, then?"

I could tell how nervous he was, how indecisive he felt. My body was on edge with how badly I wanted him to choose me. It had almost been like it was on the tip of his tongue but he knew he couldn't say it. I was his and he was mine.

Before he could respond, the waitress had walked over once again, but we hadn't been hungry. It seemed we would only be drinking for the morning.

"I want to meet her..." I whispered, hoping maybe he wouldn't hear and begin to get upset. It was an absurd request, but I wanted to. I wanted to see how on Earth she was better than me, how she could have my Timothée in this state.

"Meet her?" He chuckled sneeringly, "what are you? Insane."

"Am I? Why not? Why shouldn't I have the opportunity to apologize and tell her what really happened?"

He huffed, resting his chin on his crossed hands as if he were thinking about it. It could go one of two ways. Terribly or okay.

"Timothée... I love you." I reached my hands out to hold his once again, almost leaning my entire body across the table. Reaching out to him. My heart was pounding against my chest, goosebumps rose up on my arms with that feeling of touching him. It was addicting.

He looked at my hands, his green eyes sad,

"I... love you too."