ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

044

The scent of fresh linen fills my senses as my eyes open, half of my face sunk into a pillow. Warm, pink light peers through curtains and spills across the white duvet. Here the sun rises just before 6 AM; I estimate what time is left until a cell phone alarm interrupts, time left to continue looking upon the angelic sleeping figure mere inches from me, a rose gold ray falling onto a freckled, chiseled cheekbone.

He's on his side, too, curled up and face half-buried in his pillow, feeling the low, dormant breaths. His chin is tucked into his chest, messy brown waves reposed on his sheets, his freckles drops of gold.

Carefully, I adjust underneath the covers to inch closer, with gentle movement, so as to not wake him. Glittering lashes suddenly flutter, opening to pink, sleepy eyes that lock with mine.

A moment passes while he blinks and comes to. His hand searches under the covers, finds mine, and lifts it to his pillow, interlocked fingers nestled between us.

He brings the back of my hand to his lips, pressing them against my skin. His hand finds my leg and pulls it up and across his waist, intertwining us further, his hand just at the bend of my knee and thumb caressing the skin. His lashes flutter as his head nuzzles just under my chin, adjusting his hold as his hand slides up my shirtless back, fingers grazing my skin for a few seconds before he goes still once more. I breathe in his hair, and three times I kiss the messy chestnut locks. My fingers trace along his jaw, his fair and freckled skin, tucking an unruly curl behind his ear.

"Ma chérie," he groggily whispers, breath tickling my skin. Shifting, he quickly kisses my neck. It's corny, and he absolutely knows it, and my heart still melts.

I continue to thread my fingers through his hair, delicately picking some of the brown waves from his face piece by piece, caressing the tousled curls, tucking some behind his ear. "Mm," he grunts, "that's nice." I shift to face him, my hand resting on his cheek, his freckled nose inches from mine, eyes closed, cheeks dimpled in a smile. I look at him like my favorite painting.

Before shutting my eyes for just a while longer, I whisper, "Good morning, Timmy." Our fingers are interlocked once again. I kiss the back of his hand before pulling it to my chest.

******

A day ago, I boarded a twelve-hour flight, miraculously sleeping through the majority with the medicinal assist of in-flight wine.

First class was a holiday in itself. Wearing cozy track pants and cropped black hoodie for the journey, I settled in for a Jennifer Lopez rom com on the screen in front of me, legs pulled up on the spacious seat, taking sips of sweet red. I woke to the pilot's announcements in French and English of our landing, and I stared out the window for the twenty-minute descent in speechless awe.

My stomach fluttered, and I couldn't suppress what I felt was the purest of joyous smiles as I walked to baggage claim. Before forgetting, I texted my mom that I arrived, as well as Lara and Rosie, who hid no excitement for my holiday before I left, demanding as many pictures and updates as my international phone plan would allow. With my suitcase rolled up next to me, I typed and sent the messages before going to Timmy's text thread, scrolling up to reread my final travel logistics.

He wasn't meeting me at the airport, as it would have been somewhat chaotic, not to mention his busyness with afternoon agenda. A driver and agent had been sent and would be collecting me outside. Slightly intimidated by the arrangement, I scanned the ocean of cars and the several signs holding names. My eyes landed on a whiteboard held by a woman in a navy pantsuit and sporting a short, brown bob. Margaret Jane. I let out a cackle.

I gave a small wave in her direction, and she seemed to place recognition on me as I walked over. "Good day! Margaret?" she said in an accent I couldn't place. The driver, a man in all black and wearing a Bluetooth earpiece, emerged from the driver's seat and took my suitcase.