There’s always a hair tie around Timothée’s wrist. Not his — yours. — usually the black kind, a little stretched out, maybe one of the ones you stole from a hotel bathroom ages ago. He never uses it, but he wears it like a bracelet anyway. Says it reminds him of you. Says he likes the way it looks on his arm.

You, meanwhile, always carry his cigarettes. Not because you smoke, but because he forgets where he puts them, and at some point it just became routine. Every time you two are out, he pats down his coat, frowns a little, and then slips the carton into your purse like it lives there. Like he does.

Sometimes he’ll slide the whole pack in when you’re walking. Other times, he tucks a single cigarette into the inner pocket like it’s a secret between you.

You tease him about it constantly — “What am I, your human glove compartment?” — but he just grins and kisses your cheek. Says something like, “Nah, you’re prettier than that,” and keeps walking like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It is.

Tonight, it’s a rooftop in LA. String lights. Music. His sunglasses are in your bag too, and the lighter you do carry for him — that little matte black one he once said looked “cooler in your hands than mine.” He asks for it with a glance, already halfway through pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. You hand it over without thinking.

Later, when the wind picks up and your hair starts sticking to your lip gloss, he pulls the tie from his wrist and gathers your hair in one hand, sweeping it back without a word. Gentle. Thoughtful. Almost automatic.

“There,” he says, securing it with a little twist. “Now I can see your face.”

You squint at him. “You mean your face.”

He grins — like it’s some private joke only you two understand. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

And it’s all so small. So soft. His hoodie smelling like your perfume. Your lipstick on his water bottle. A hair tie around his wrist. A lighter in your purse.

None of it matters to anyone else.

But to you?

It’s everything.