You find him in the kitchen of the rental house in the hills. The sun has already started to slide behind the clouds — casting a dusky, gold-drenched light that makes everything look like it’s been filtered through old film stock.

Timothée is barefoot, wearing someone else’s hoodie (probably yours), and there’s a French press steaming between you.

He’s mid-sentence when you walk in, already talking about some line from a script he just read. His hands move when he speaks — not dramatically, but with a kind of fluttering urgency, like he’s always on the edge of something.

You don’t interrupt. Just lean against the counter, arms crossed, letting the sound of his voice fill the space.

“I don’t know,” he says, finally slowing, brushing curls from his forehead. “It’s weird, right? How sometimes the best lines are the ones no one hears.”

You nod, unsure if he means the script — or something else entirely.

It’s been a weird week. A lot of long days on set, press interviews that don’t leave room for breath, cameras in places that feel too quiet for flashbulbs. But here, now — no one’s watching. Not really.

He slides you a cup of coffee. It’s too hot, too strong. It tastes like nerves and late nights. You drink it anyway.

Outside, you can hear birds. Cars. Someone laughing down the hill. But in here, it’s just the two of you and the sound of the fridge humming quietly.

“You ever think about just… vanishing?” he asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Like going completely off-grid. No Wi-Fi. No premieres. Just… dirt roads and sunburns.”

You laugh. “You wouldn’t last two days without soundcloud and your milkduds.”

He grins — sharp and soft at once. “You’d be there. That would help.”

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you just look at him — this boy who sometimes feels like he’s made of light and shadows all at once. The kind of person who feels a little too much, talks a little too fast, and somehow still always finds the silence in the middle of the noise.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to fall for him. Maybe it wasn’t practical, or timely, or smart.

But he’s here. And you’re here. And maybe that’s enough.

For now.