A crowd has gathered outside the cinema, buzzing with excitement. Timothée is in the middle of it, a practiced rhythm to the way he moves—pen cap off, smile, sign, eye contact, thank you, next. His presence feels light, like he’s trying not to take up too much space even when everyone is looking at him.

Then, in a moment between autographs, his eyes shift.

You’re leaning against the wall of the comic book store. Arms crossed, head tilted slightly towards the street. You're not hiding or trying to blend in, but you're clearly not part of this.

No phone. No camera. No interest.

Timothée signs one more poster, but he’s distracted now. Not subtly.

He walks away from the rope line, ignoring the flutter of disappointment behind him. "You sure you’re in the right place?" Timothée asks, stopping a few feet in front of you.

You barely move your eyes. Just enough to look at him. "Yeah."

He glances over his shoulder, back at the line, then at you again. "Didn’t see you in the line."

"That’s because I wasn’t in it."

His mouth lifts slightly, curious. "So you don’t want anything signed?"

"Nope."

"Not even a selfie?"

"I think I’ll survive."

He slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "You waiting on someone?"

"My brother. He’s in there." You nod towards the comic shop window behind you.

Timothée follows your gaze. Inside, someone is flipping through a rack of vintage books.

"You into comics?" he asks.

"Nope."

He looks back at you, just the faintest crease forming between his brows. You’re not playing hard to get. You’re just... not playing.

"So you're just standing here?"

"That’s how waiting works."

He exhales, somewhere between a breath and a laugh, studying you like he’s trying to figure out the rules of a game he wasn’t told he was playing.

"You’re not gonna ask who I am?"

"I already know."

He pauses, brows raised. "You don’t care?"

"Not really."

Silence stretches for a moment. "You always like this?" Timothée asks.

"Mostly," you say, shrugging just a little.

"I don’t know if I admire that or find it kind of brutal."

"You’ll figure it out."

The comic shop door creaks open behind you. Your brother steps out, clutching a small paper bag, adjusting his glasses.

"Got it," he said, looking taken aback. "Whoa! Were you talking to—?'

"He was talking to me," you say without missing a beat.

Your brother’s mouth opens a little, then closes again as he looks toward the next storefront. “Can we hit the game shop before we go?” he asks, already turning towards the door of the next place.

You nod. "Yeah. Sure."

Timothée is still standing there with his arms folded. “You’re not leaving then?” he asks.

"Apparently not."

He glances back at the waiting fans, the rope and his manager. Then he turns slightly, as though he might go, but then he doesn't.

"Can I ask something?" Timothée says.

"You’re doing that already," you reply.

He laughs again, shaking his head just a little. "You’re kind of messing with my head, you know that?"

"That sounds like your problem."

He runs a hand across his hair, still smiling, though something behind his eyes has sharpened.

His manager lifts a hand from the edge of the crowd—one subtle motion that says 'wrap it up'.

Then, finally, he turns to go.

"I’ll remember this," Timothée says over his shoulder.

He walks back toward the crowd, the sound rising as fans realize he’s returned. He picks up the Sharpie again. Smiles. Signs. But his glance cuts sideways more than once.

You still don’t look back.

And that, somehow, keeps him turning his head.