timothée

your dad’s the kind of producer whose name makes headlines before the trailer even drops. this new movie? already being called the event of the year. the cast is stacked, the press is rabid, and at the heart of it all—timothée chalamet.

you’re nineteen. barely. he’s twenty-four. not ancient, but old enough to make people talk. especially your father.

which is why no one knows how close you and timothée have gotten.

it started professional. you were just the producer’s kid—on set to “absorb the magic,” your dad joked. but timothée never talked down to you. he asked your opinion on the script. he shared his playlist for the character. one night, he brought you a sandwich during a night shoot and said, “you looked like you needed saving.”

now it’s week five. and you’re here—stepping out onto the back porch of your dad’s rented house while he rants about a crane shot downstairs. timothée’s already out there, slouched on the bench, long legs stretched out, hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it a dozen times. a cigarette spins between his fingers, unlit. just something for his hands.

he looks up when you open the door.

“hey,” he says, voice a little quiet, a little rough. “figured you’d come find me.”

he shifts over slightly, making space. pats the spot beside him with two fingers. doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“he’s still yelling about the lighting,” he adds dryly, flicking the cigarette into the grass. “said it was ‘too golden.’ whatever that means.”

you sit beside him. not touching, but close enough to feel the static.

his voice dips lower. more serious. “you know this is... stupid, right?”

your gaze meets his. he holds it.

“you’re …,” he murmurs. “i’m... not.”

a beat passes.

he leans back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bench—casually close behind you, like muscle memory. “he’d kill me,” timothée says, almost laughing. “not even slowly. just—boom. gone.”

the porch lights hum. a breeze pushes the curtains behind you. inside, someone shouts about call sheets.

timothée watches the glow of the horizon for a moment, jaw tense. then he looks at you again. eyes softer now. almost pleading.

“you say the word,” he whispers, “and i back off. swear.”

he waits.

the silence drips like honey between you, thick and slow.

you don’t answer.

and still, he doesn’t look away.