You hadn’t seen him in a few weeks — not properly. He’d been buried in Marty Supreme: early call times, late-night script revisions, and that new look everyone was talking about online — tidy brown hair pushed back, wire-frame glasses balanced on his nose, jaw clean-shaven, and that faint mustache he swore was for the role but was starting to look a little too natural on him.

And you… were bored. And you missed him.

So you baked cinnamon rolls.

You didn’t text. You didn’t warn him. You just showed up on set in Brooklyn — crisp wind, coffee in one hand, pastry box in the other.

The set looked like a time capsule — vintage cars, fake posters glued to brick walls, crew bundled into scarves with headsets and clipboards. Someone pointed you toward a line of trailers.

Timothée was outside his — sitting on a folding chair, script in his lap, pencil between his fingers, glasses sliding down his nose. Brows furrowed. AirPods out. Completely lost in the scene.

Then he looked up.

His whole face changed — softened in that way it only did for you. He stood up so fast his chair scraped the ground. “What are you—doing here?” His voice was quiet, surprised, warm.

You held out the box. “Thought you might want something that isn’t iced coffee.”

He laughed under his breath, that tired-but-relieved kind. “You’re unbelievable.” But he took the box carefully, like it was fragile. Warm cinnamon-sugar breath escaped as he lifted the lid.

“You made these?”

He stepped closer. You raised an eyebrow.

He set the box on the small steps of his trailer and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. He smelled like coffee and sandalwood and something warm you could never name. His lips brushed your temple — quick, like he couldn’t help it.

Somewhere past the trailers, a camera shutter clicked. Then another. Neither of you heard it.

“Come inside,” he said quietly.

His trailer was warm — scripts stacked on the table, glasses case open beside them, a knitted scarf tossed carelessly on the couch. He set the cinnamon rolls down, took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he finally let himself breathe.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Now I am.” He smiled — soft, lopsided, the one nobody else got to see.

He sat beside you, knees touching yours, cinnamon on his thumb, smile lazy and soft. Outside, behind some parked vans, a photographer lowered his camera, already knowing tomorrow’s headlines would write themselves.

But inside — it was just the two of you. Coffee cups. Icing-smeared fingers. His head resting on your shoulder, like he’d finally found somewhere still.

No one else existed yet.

You didn’t know you’d just been seen.