𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 ─────⋆⋅★𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩é𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘵

𝟎𝟕 | 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭-𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧-𝐝𝐞𝐬-𝐏𝐫é𝐬, 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬

The afternoon light slanted through the tall, dust-streaked windows of Adèle's studio, drenching everything in a thick, amber glow. It was stiflingly warm, the air heavy with the smells of old wood, turpentine, and the metallic tang of dried paint.

The scent clung to my skin, wrapped around me like the weight of a memory I couldn't shake.

Canvases leaned in disarray against the walls—unfinished worlds frozen in time, waiting for the next stroke of a brush that never came.

The space was messy, but deliberately so. Everything in this room seemed to exist on purpose, imbued with meaning that hung in the air like the dust suspended in the fading light.

Timothée lounged near a cluttered table, arms crossed, his posture deceptively casual, but his eyes tracked me with a sharpness that made it hard to ignore. His mouth curved into that same half-smirk—a little too knowing, a little too cruel. It was always like this between us. A game.

"Hello, ma chére," he said, his voice dripping with something soft and lazy, like honey drizzling from the edge of a spoon.

As if he hadn't been waiting. As if this was all effortless for him.

I felt the undercurrent in his words—the way he baited me, waiting for a reaction.

Always pushing.

I forced myself to roll my eyes, masking the pull I felt the moment I saw him, the way my pulse quickened despite my better instincts.

"You," I said flatly, refusing to give him more than that.

I let my gaze drift, taking in the familiar mess of Adèle's studio—the scattered sketches, the smell of turpentine hanging thick and suffocating in the air.

This had been a setup. I could feel it. Adèle had brought me here for a reason, and Timothée showing up wasn't an accident. I could practically sense her hand in this.

"What are you doing here?" I tried to sound disinterested, but I could feel his eyes cutting into me, dissecting every movement, every breath.

He leaned in, his hand curling around the edge of a pillar, his shoulder brushing it as he swung into my space. His cologne hit me first—smoky, with that hint of something citrus beneath. Tangerines.

"You seemed so fond of art the other night," he murmured, his voice dipping low, almost teasing. There was an edge there, a subtle jab. "Thought I'd stop by. See what had you blushing."

His eyes flicked over to a sketch of me—one of Adèle's, done a week earlier. His lips quirked into that damn smile again, like we were sharing a private joke.

I walked past him, pretending the heat of his proximity didn't send my pulse skittering. "Right."

He watched me move, his eyes heavy on my back, his presence like a weight pressing down on me.

"I didn't realise you modelled," he said, voice thick with teasing as he nodded toward the sketch. His gaze lingered on it, then flicked back to mine, sharp and knowing.

"I don't," I answered, clipped, trying not to let him see how he was getting under my skin.

"Shame," he said, his smirk deepening. His eyes glinted with something dangerous, something that made the room feel even smaller.

I turned to face him, the thick air between us buzzing. "I know—models are more your type, right?" I shot back, my voice light, mocking. "Blondes, too."