The party’s still humming inside, dim lights flickering behind tall windows, but out here on the balcony, it’s cooler. Quieter. The kind of quiet that presses in gently, not demanding anything.

You sit beside Timothée, knees almost touching. Neither of you are dressed for the breeze—he’s rolled his sleeves up anyway, collar unbuttoned like he’s half-forgotten the cameras. His curls are a little damp at the edges from the heat inside, and his cigarette burns steadily between two fingers, the smoke rising slowly.

He passes it to you without a word. You take it.

No talking yet. Just shared breath, passed silence, a soft clink of glass on stone as he sets his drink down beside him. The stars overhead are faint—city-washed—but you still look up at them. He does too.

You hear someone laugh too loud behind the glass door. Neither of you flinch.

His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts, lazy and unintentional. But he doesn’t move away. He just leans back again, glancing at you sideways through his lashes. There’s something like a smile there—but faint. Like the kind of thing that doesn’t need announcing.

You ash the cigarette. Hand it back. He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly.

“You good?” he asks eventually, voice low like the night’s set a volume limit.

You nod.

He doesn’t push for more. Doesn’t need to.

Above you both, the sky stretches wide and still, and the quiet settles again—comfortable, warm-edged, as the two of you keep smoking and watching the dark.