Backstage was chaos in silk robes and hairspray.

Angels weaving past racks of wings, makeup artists shouting for touch-ups, glitter pooling on the floor like stardust. You stood in front of a mirror, lips glossed, heart racing — about to step onto the Victoria’s Secret runway for the first time. Cameras waited. So did the world.

And behind you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, was Timothée.

He looked so out of place and yet completely at home — dressed in black, curls intentionally messy, laminated “GUEST” badge hanging forgotten around his neck. His knee bounced against the vanity table, more nervous than you.

“You’re not even the one walking,” you teased, adjusting the strap of your satin robe.

He blinked, refocused on you instead of the feathered wings leaning against the wall. “Yeah, and somehow I’m the one sweating.” His voice was soft, low — only for you.

You turned to face him fully. “You don’t have to stay back here—you could watch from the audience.”

“I kind of like this view.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

A stage manager’s voice echoed down the hallway: “First lineup — get ready. Two minutes.”

Your breath caught.

Timothée stepped in, hands settling gently at your waist. “You’ve got this,” he murmured, forehead brushing yours. No big speech — just warmth, steady and certain. You nodded, breathing him in — peppermint, cologne, home.

You nodded, breathing him in — peppermint gum and cologne and whatever warmth he always carried with him.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed, softer.

He smiled. “I’ll go find my seat. Front row.”

You hesitated. “You will?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He lifted his phone once — click. “For me. For luck.”

Then he was gone — swallowed by the maze of curtains and corridors leading to the audience.

Your name was called.

You stepped into the lineup. Music thundered. Wings shifted behind you. The curtain rose.

The crowd was a blur of lights and silhouettes — but there, near the stage, you found him. No beanie now, curls unhidden, elbows braced on his knees, watching like the room had narrowed to only you.

And when you walked — glitter under your heels, cameras flashing — the nerves faded. Not because of the cheers.

But because somewhere in that sea of people, Timothée was sitting forward in his chair, eyes soft, lips parted slightly in awe.

Watching you.

Always you.