The house feels quieter than usual. Or maybe it’s just the anticipation humming beneath the walls — the kind that comes before a storm or a haircut you can’t undo.

Timothée’s in the bathroom, sitting backwards on a wooden chair you dragged in from the kitchen. His shirt’s already off, curls damp from a quick shower. He leans forward a little, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced.

“You sure about this?” you ask, holding the clippers like they might bite.

He meets your eyes in the mirror. Shrugs. “They want it clean for the reshoots. Paul’s gone full messiah mode, I guess.”

You nod, trying to smile like this isn’t strange. Like you haven’t spent years threading your fingers through his hair while he read scripts or played you old Dylan records. Like it’s just hair.

“Sure you don’t want to go to a salon?”

You raise your brows, one hand already tangled in his hair. “Since when do you trust anyone but me with this head?”

He grins. But it fades a little when you switch on the clippers.

The buzz isn’t loud, but it cuts through the stillness. He closes his eyes. You step closer.

You start near the nape, steady and slow. Soft brown curls fall in loose spirals, scattering across his shoulders and onto the tile. His breath catches the first time you graze too close to the skin. He doesn’t say anything — just shifts slightly, letting you in.

“You okay?” you ask.

His voice is quieter than usual. “Yeah. Just feels weird.”

You keep going.

It does feel weird — seeing his face take shape like this, cheekbones sharper, jaw more pronounced. Like something’s being revealed rather than taken away. The curls softened him. This look doesn’t.

You blow a curl off his shoulder. It drifts to the floor, joins the others. The pile looks strange — too many versions of him on the ground, pieces of old roles, old interviews, old red carpets.

By the time you finish, there’s hair everywhere — on your shirt, on the counter, in the sink. Timothée runs a hand over his head, blinking at his reflection.

“Looks good,” you say, soft. Honest.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against your stomach for a second. Just a second.

And then he looks up — grinning now, sharp and bright — and says, “Alright. Buzzcut era begins.”

You laugh.

“Guess I’ll get used to it.”

And later, when the photos start surfacing — blurry, grainy shots of him at the bodega or stepping into a car — you’ll both laugh at the internet’s reaction. But here, now, in your apartment with a dustpan full of his curls and the buzz of the clippers still echoing faintly in your ears, you rake your fingers gently along the short, soft edge at the back of his scalp.

It’s different.

But it’s still him.