You’re the darling of the moment — eyeliner sharp, smile sharper. All the magazines are calling you America’s Sweetheart, but tonight, under the lights and lens flares, you’re already it.

And him?

He’s Timothée Chalamet. A little undone around the edges, all cheekbones and chaos and charm. Tonight, he’s in vintage Saint Laurent, rings on his fingers, his curls doing exactly what they want, looking like they should have their own IMDb page.

You were cast as on-screen lovers long before it became something else. Somewhere between late-night script reads and shared coffee spoons, it slipped into something real. Something soft.

The premiere is noise and heat and velvet ropes, and he finds you just as you’re stepping out of the car.

You’re wearing black. He’s in white. Sometimes it’s the other way around — doesn’t matter. The point is: you don’t match. You never do. And yet, the headlines call it “effortless.” “Iconic.” “Electric.” Like the two of you planned it, instead of throwing yourselves together the way you always do — last minute, full speed, no brakes.

“Hey,” he says, quiet, like he’s seen you a hundred times and still doesn’t believe it. His eyes do a sweep — shoes to lipstick. He’s already smiling.

“You look like a fever dream.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s there — that grin that makes his mouth twitch and the cameras stutter.

The premiere is noise and heat and velvet ropes. You stepped onto the red carpet first — a blur of silk and flashbulbs — and they gasped when they saw you. But now he’s the one in the center, standing in front of the photo wall, camera shutters chattering like rain.

He’s a few steps away, posing for the solo shots, the ones that’ll be on every entertainment site by morning. You pause just off to the side — tucked half behind a velvet rope, watching him like the whole world doesn’t already know. The way he angles his face. The way the corners of his mouth twitch when he spots you in his periphery.

He doesn’t smile for the cameras.

He smiles because of you.

And then — like he’s breaking all the unspoken red carpet rules — he turns his whole body toward you, lifts his hand, and beckons you forward.

You blink. Once. Twice.

But your feet are already moving.

“Come here,” he mouths. No sound, just the curl of his lips and the way his eyes don’t let you look anywhere else.

When you reach him, his fingers find yours like they were waiting. His free arm slips around your waist.

The photographers lose it.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

You lean into him, cheek tilted just enough so he can whisper, “you’re stealing every shot.”

“You’re the one who looks like art.”

He huffs a laugh — nose brushing your temple.

When they start asking for the two of you together — name, name, name — it doesn’t feel like a show. It feels like arrival. Like something that’s been waiting to happen since the first script read-through.

You don’t even flinch when he says, loud enough to be heard,“This is my favorite co-star.”

The press eats it up.

But his hand stays at the small of your back long after the cameras stop flashing.

Later, the theater marquee glowed like a crown outside, light catching in the sheen of Timmy’s Saint Laurent suit—open collar, no tie, a whisper of mischief in how undone he looked for something this formal. His curls were still a little damp at the ends. That half-smirk on his face had already trended on social media twice tonight.

And yet—his hand never left yours. Not once.

You weren’t supposed to be this. The It Couple. But here you were: front row at the premiere, your names whispered behind lipstick-stained flutes of champagne, your glances dissected like they were scenes from the film itself.

He sat beside you, leg pressed lightly against yours, hand on your knee during the applause. When the final credits rolled and the lights came up, he didn’t look at the crowd. He looked at you.

Like it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.