Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

4 | What's The Catch?

"What's the best part?" I asked.

"There's food."

Just the mention of the word put a smile on my face, and I turned my head towards the street so he wouldn't see. There was something vulnerable about smiling in front of someone, and the flashes of red flags striking across my mind was enough to make me feel uneasy. Toni warned me about him. But, then again...food?

"I'll hand it to you, Timothée," I noted, stepping over a stone on the sidewalk, "you've got my attention now."

He winked. "Haven't I always had it?"

If cringes were audible, I'd have one the sound of a meteor crashing into the earth. It wasn't a bad thing, but it held true to the thought I had been thinking about a mere second ago. The epitome of a red flag: narcissism, ego, outright flirtation, and unbearable attractiveness.

But that's what made me so keen to keep walking with him. The honeyed tone he'd use when he'd turn to look at me—like he was forever waiting for a response—and inviting me to answer back. Even if it was in the worst way possible, I was drawn to him like a magnet. Stuck, unwilling, and unable to get pulled away.

"Here," Timothée said abruptly, stopping in his tracks. We were standing in the middle of a boulevard now, a few blocks away from the bakery, and nowhere near the market he was bringing me to. He lifted his hand towards my shoulder, gently pushing me to the side so he could focus his gaze on something near my neck. "Do you mind?"

Though I wasn't looking at his face now— staring at the wall of some wine shop that desperately needed to repaint the chipping furnishing of the clay bricks—I could feel his eyes trailing down my neck and towards the top of my back. I prayed the goosebumps on my arms weren't noticeable.

"Do I mind what?" I questioned, swallowing my spit nervously.

His voice was lowered now, as I felt the tip of his finger brush lightly against the nape of my neck. "If I fix this for you."

"Fix?"

As if to answer, he tugged at the fabric on the top of my dress, bending down as if to observe it closer. I realized the two button clasps had somehow come undone since this morning, and were now hanging loosely down my spine. I almost flinched out of sheer anxiousness.

"Um, sure," I stammered, pressing my lips together, "go ahead."

Timothée let out a breathy grunt of amusement, nimbly looping the two pieces of fabric between his fingers until the familiar sound of metal clicked together just underneath the back of my ears.

"Désolé," he said, "it has been bothering me since this morning."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" I uttered sheepishly.

"Given the way you seemed to hate me at the present moment," he mused, running the strands of his hair through his fingers, "would you have cared?"

I couldn't answer that. I didn't think he'd assume I hated him for it, when in truth it was nothing more than a disposition, but I was surprised he cared. He didn't seem like one to care about things like that. Then again, whatever compelled him to fix a loose button was proof there was more to him than hidden underneath his ivory complexion.

I wondered if he had a knack for reading people. He certainly was able to read my hostility earlier, no matter how restrained I tried to make it seem.

"I didn't hate you," I muttered, "and I don't now, so don't think too much of it."

"I won't," he smiled.

There was an awkward pause, more so on my end than his, before we resumed walking again. I felt like I was wading in thick waters, doused in tension and whatever mysteries he had tucked up his sleeves, because I'd expect myself to drown in them before ever pulling myself out.