𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 ─────⋆⋅★𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩é𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘵

𝟎𝟗 | 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮

The morning unfolded in muted shades, an unsettling quiet seeping into the bones of the day. 

The sky outside was the colour of old stone, pale and flat, still holding traces of last night's rain. Through the window, the world appeared washed clean, but with none of the promise of renewal—just a lingering sense of dampness, the smell of wet leaves and earth creeping into the room. 

The light that made its way through the threadbare curtains was weak, stretching in narrow, fragile lines across the wooden floorboards, casting the room in a dim, uncertain glow.

I stood there for what felt like hours, half-dressed, one hand resting on the windowsill, the other hovering uselessly over the books scattered on the table. 

The air inside was thick with stillness, that strange, suspended feeling that often came at dawn when the world hadn't yet committed to waking. It was as though time itself had stalled, the day paused at the threshold, and I was caught somewhere in between—on the edge of some inevitable confrontation I wasn't yet ready to face.

Outside, the street lay empty, and even the usual morning sounds—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a dog—were absent. There was only silence, waiting to be broken.

It came with a knock.

Sharp, insistent, it cut through the quiet like a blade. 

A second knock followed, quicker this time, impatient, almost angry. 

The sound rippled through the room, jolting me back into my body, and for a moment, I stood frozen. Then, irritation flickered through me, swift and sudden, followed by a darker emotion I couldn't—or wouldn't—name.

I hesitated, my breath caught in my throat. But eventually, I opened the door.

There, leaning casually against the frame, was Timothée. His posture was nonchalant, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes settled on me, holding my gaze a second too long, a deliberate pause that carried an undercurrent of something unspoken. 

He wore his usual uniform—black leather jacket slung over his shoulder, dark hair curling messily around his face, tousled in that way that suggested both carelessness and precision. 

In his hand, a cigarette dangled, unlit, but still trailing the faint scent of smoke, as if it had only just been extinguished.

"Brought breakfast," he said, lifting a paper bag and coffee cup in one hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like last night hadn't happened. 

Like we hadn't stood on opposite sides of a chasm, words hanging in the air between us, unsaid and unresolved.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You can't just show up like this."

His mouth curled into a half-smile, a careful, practiced expression. Apology? Challenge? I wasn't sure, but it didn't reach his eyes. 

He stepped forward without waiting for permission, brushing past me with a deliberate closeness, the scent of smoke and damp leather clinging to him. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us into the quiet together.

"You don't eat enough," he said, setting the coffee on the table beside my books, as if this intrusion into my space was expected, inevitable.

I watched him, a familiar frustration tugging at me. 

Timothée had this maddening ability to inhabit any room as though it belonged to him, as though his presence was a fact of the universe. "Concerned for my health now?" I asked, trying—and failing—to keep the bite from my voice.