Your mornings with him never started loud — no alarms blaring or frantic rushing. Just the soft hum of the radiator in the tiny NYU apartment and the quiet rustle of Timothée flipping through his script while you brushed your teeth in his sweatshirt.

The window beside his bed was fogged from the cold, blurring out the city, but you could still hear it — cars, sirens, life happening five floors below. His curls were messy, notebook open, highlighter cap between his teeth.

“You’re gonna be late,” you said, grabbing your bag.

He didn’t look up. “Professor Levy worships me,” he mumbled through the cap.

You laughed, crossing the room to tug it from his mouth. “No, Timothée, she tolerates you because you quote French cinema every class.”

He leaned back against the headboard, smirk lazy. “And you love me for it.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t bother denying it.

Moments later, you were both outside, bundled up against the New York winter, fingers brushing as you walked down University Place. He carried two coffees from the corner cart — one black, one exactly how you liked it.

“You staying after class?” he asked, pushing open the door to Tisch for you.

“Library,” you said. “Midterms. You?”

“Rehearsal.” He hesitated for a moment, cheeks pink from the cold. “Then… I’ll come find you?”

You nodded. “You’d better.”

His grin widened — that boyish, crooked one that made people fall in love with him on film and in real life. Before heading to his studio, he dropped a quick kiss to your cheek, warm and fleeting.

“I’ll see you in the quiet section,” he whispered, like it was a secret.

All day, between lectures and pages of notes, you’d catch glimpses of him — in the hallway, in someone else’s laughter, in the scribbled hearts he’d left on your notebook margins.

And later, when the sky outside the library turned purple and the city lights blinked awake, you’d feel his jacket drop over your shoulders, his voice low as he said:

“Told you I’d find you.”