It was meant to be a casual evening.

Timothée had finally wrapped filming on his upcoming movie, which meant — at last — the two of you had your much needed time back. The first night off was spent at a friend’s party, the air thick with laughter, music, and glasses that never seemed to stay empty.

Somewhere between laughter and the warmth of his hand brushing yours, you found yourself tugging him toward the corner where the photobooth sat.

“Come on,” you whispered, a grin tugging at your mouth. He raised a brow but followed, because he always did when you looked at him like that.

The curtain snapped shut, the rest of the world cut off in an instant. Inside, it was cramped and warm, knees knocking, shoulders pressed together. Timmy’s curls fell into his eyes, but his smirk was sharp as he leaned toward the little lens above the screen.

“Serious face,” he murmured. You tried, but the first flash caught you stiff, him smirking, both of you too aware of how close you were.

Second: his arm looped around you, pulling you tighter. You broke, laughing, right as the light froze you mid-smile.

Third: his mouth tilted near your cheek, your eyes darting to him in the split-second before the flash — the almost that lingered in glossy ink.

Fourth: chaos — his hand in your hair, your laugh spilling against his shoulder, both of you a blur of something you couldn’t quite disguise.

The strip slid out, still warm. Timmy caught it first, thumb brushing over the frames, his lips twitching. “These are insane,” he muttered, eyes snagging on the third shot a second too long before he shoved it into his pocket.

By the time you left the party, the photos were gone. You thought nothing of it — a slip, maybe, lost between the couch cushions or in the cab ride home.

Until the next morning.

Your phone buzzed off the nightstand, notifications in relentless waves. You blinked awake, bleary, only to see it: the strip. Scanned. Cropped. Passed around like wildfire.

The first two photos were harmless enough, but the last — his hand in your hair, your laugh caught on his lips — wasn’t something that could be mistaken for casual.

Your heart dropped. The internet didn’t hesitate.

They’re definitely together. Look at the way he’s looking at her. This isn’t just friends.

Timmy showed up at your door before you’d even decided what to say. Hoodie pulled over his head, curls falling wild, he shoved his phone toward you — the leak pulled up, your faces staring back.

“Guess we didn’t lose them,” he said quietly, half a laugh in his throat but not in his eyes.

You met his gaze, unsure if you should be furious or terrified. But he only looked at you, steady, as if waiting to see what you’d call this — an accident, or something else entirely.