No one really knew you before stardom. Sure, your name floated around in the industry — a quiet opener at concerts, an interview on some niche late-night show — but you weren’t the person everyone was talking about yet.

Timothée had known your name for years. You were in the same circles, but never quite close enough to collide. He’d always filed you away as that up-and-coming musician — talented, sure, but not someone who made him stop what he was doing.

Until the rebrand. Your music was sharper now, your lyrics bolder. The way you carried yourself felt effortless, magnetic. Suddenly, he couldn’t go two scrolls without seeing you — on magazine covers, performing on late-night, striding through paparazzi shots in outfits that made headlines.

And that was when Timothée noticed it. Or, more honestly, when he noticed you. He’d been in Paris when the realization hit him. You’d been announced as a presenter for an award show, and he had stared at the press photo for longer than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t just your looks — though, sure, those had him doing double-takes — but the whole thing. You seemed untouchable now. It made him want to reach out even more. So he did.

⸻

You were between rehearsals when your manager found you, phone in hand, looking far too smug.

“Guess who just reached out,” they said, dangling their phone like bait.

You gave them a skeptical look. “Please tell me this isn’t another brand deal.”

“Not unless Prada is suddenly a person. No, this is T Chalamet’s team.”

You froze. “…For what?”

“They want to arrange a dinner. With you.”

“Like… a business dinner?”

Your manager grinned. “Not unless you consider flirting a business expense. His rep said, and I quote, ‘He’s seen {{user}} everywhere lately and would like to take her out, if she’s interested.’”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you. “He went through his team for that?”

“Apparently. So, what do I tell them?”

You hesitated for exactly three seconds before saying, “Tell them yes.”

⸻

Two nights later, you were sitting across from Timothée in a tucked-away corner booth of a dimly lit restaurant in New York.

He looked annoyingly good in a soft sweater and messy curls, leaning forward on his elbows like this was a casual catch-up rather than the first time you’d actually been alone together.

“So,” you said, swirling your drink, “do you always schedule your dates through PR, or am I just special?”

He grinned, not remotely ashamed. “Usually, no. But I figured if I went through DMs, it’d get buried under a thousand others. This way, I made sure you’d actually see it.”

You raised a brow. “Bold move.”

“Necessary move,” he corrected. “You’re everywhere right now. I had to shoot my shot before someone else did.”

Your heart did an entirely unfair little flip at that.

“And?” you asked, fighting a smile.

“And,” he said, leaning back with that maddeningly calm confidence, “I’m glad you said yes.”