The flashbulbs hadn’t even stopped when he tugged the Knicks cap lower on his curls, leaned toward you with a grin too wide for someone who wasn’t playing in the game, and shouted over the roar of Madison Square Garden:

“Did you see that alley-oop?! That was insane—”

He was electric like this. Timothée was that kid from New York again — a vintage-style navy blue Knicks tracksuit with bold orange and white stripes, one hand gripping your knee like he might actually collapse if Brunson doesn’t make that next shot, the other gesturing midair like he could will the ball into the hoop with sheer enthusiasm.

You’d tried to play it cool at first — hands tucked in your lap, expression poised. But now, two quarters in, he had you yelling too. There was something infectious about it. About him.

At one point, he stood. Fully stood. Jumped when Brunson made a three.

The entire front row turned.

You watched as he clapped, eyes shining, cheeks flushed from the adrenaline or maybe just from being so damn in it. And when he sat again, he grabbed your wrist like he couldn’t believe you weren’t bouncing too.

“Come on,” he said, breathless, “I know you’re not a Knicks fan, but that was beautiful.”

And it was.

Later, during halftime, he nudged your thigh with his knee and offered you the last of his drink. It was already lukewarm, but he smiled at you like it was some royal offering.

“You get it now, right?” he asks, eyes wide, electric. “This—this is religion. Don’t tell Cannes, but this might be my best performance of the year.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned into his shoulder a little, felt the fabric of his jacket scratch soft against your cheek, smelled the popcorn and cologne and spring air in his curls.

His laugh was full and reckless and young — like it was just the two of you, lost somewhere between buzzer beats and camera flashes, in love with the noise, the neon, and each other.