It wasn’t your first interview — but it was the first time you’d been the one holding the questions.

The magazine had asked for something different. Something personal. An actor interviewing an actor. Or maybe they just knew it would make good copy, pairing the two of you together, both of your names bolded in the headline. Either way, they put you in the chair across from him, a slim notepad in your lap and a recorder blinking red between you.

Timothée shows up late, but only by five minutes — the kind of late that feels deliberate, casual, almost charming. He’s all curls and denim and restless energy, dropping into the seat across from you with a grin like you’re old friends instead of colleagues meeting under fluorescent lights.

“You’re really doing this?” he teases, glancing at your notepad. “Didn’t think you’d go easy on me.”

You laugh, pretending to shuffle your pages like a serious reporter. But you already know this won’t be like any other interview. Because it isn’t just about his new role or the festivals lined up on his calendar. It’s about how he talks when he’s not being recorded. About the way his hands sketch shapes in the air when words don’t feel like enough.

He leans back in the chair, one ankle resting over the other, curls falling into his eyes. His gaze flicks to your notepad, then back to you, and a small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice soft, teasing.

“Maybe,” you admit, flipping to the first question. The pen feels heavier than usual in your hand.

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that makes the room feel warmer, more intimate. “Good. Wouldn’t want it to be boring.”

You glance at the blinking red light of the recorder, take a slow breath, and tap it gently.

“Okay,” you say, settling into your chair. “Let’s start.”

The recorder clicks, the first question leaves your lips, and suddenly it’s no longer just the two of you in the room — it’s the start of something unfolding, unpredictable and alive.