“Elle l’est,” René replied.
She isand that would pass. Or at least that’s what his tone said.
Jean-Luc laughed. “Essaie de ne pas la briser avant le déjeuner.”Try not to break her before lunch.
René stopped then. Just long enough to turn his head. “T'inquiète,” he said, almost dismissively. “Si elle brise, c'est qu'elle sert à rien.”
Do not worry. If she breaks, she was useless.It took everything I had to notflinchat that particular description. I also tried to not read much more into that, like, if I survived, then I belonged here.
Jean-Luc lifted a brow. “Tu ne vas pas la présenter?”
“No.”
And with that, René walked away. No pause. No glance back. No checking to see if I followed.
I pivoted instantly and went after him. Because whatever this was—this test, this pace, this refusal to soften—I understood one thing perfectly. René Dubois did not wait for people who needed permission. I wasn’t about to give him a reason to leave me behind.
René didn’t slow once we hit the sidewalk.
He cut left, then right, already pulling his phone from his pocket, thumbs moving with ruthless efficiency. Emails. Messages. Probably dismantling someone’s confidence before noon. I stayed half a step behind him, matching his pace without crowding his space.
We descended into the métro without a word.
The air changed immediately—warm, metallic, layered with perfume and old stone and motion. René stood near the platform edge, still working, body angled slightly away from me. A test. Always a test.
I didn’t take out my phone.
Didn’t check the time. Didn’t pretend this was casual.
When the train arrived, I followed him on, found a place to stand without touching him, without drifting. He never looked up. Never acknowledged me. But he didn’t shake me either.
We surfaced in Le Marais.
The light was different here—sharper, playful. The streets felt curated but not precious. People wore clothes like they were making arguments with their bodies. Oversized silhouettes. Sharp tailoring softened by scuffed boots. Vintage jackets paired with surgical precision.
I wanted to photograph everything. But I didn’t. It almost physically pained me.
René finally put his phone away and slowed, his pace shifting from destination-driven to something looser. Observational. He strolled like a man browsing with no particular goal or destination in mind. That was bullshit and I wasn’t buying it, but for now, I just followed him and let the neighborhood show itself.
Rue Vieille-du-Templeunfolded around us like a private runway.
Independent boutiques pressed close to one another, windows styled with intention rather than budget. Vintage shops that felt closer to theMarché aux Pucesthan to fashion houses. Concept stores where nothing made sense until it suddenly did.
I kept my eyes moving. On people. On silhouettes. On the way fabric fell. On René. I refused to lose him in the noise.
We stopped in front of a narrow storefront halfway down the street. No sign screaming for attention. Just a simple window and a sense that if you knew, you knew.
René stepped inside without hesitation. The woman behind the counter looked up and immediately frowned.
“René,” she said in French, arms crossed. “It’s too early.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t polite.
But it worked.
“Too early is when the work is honest,” he said. “Too late is when everyone has opinions.”
