The London show was chaos — the good kind.

A full arena. Three outfit changes. Two encores. Confetti raining like a dream you forgot you wanted. Your body still hums from the final chorus, nerves alight, skin warm under your jacket, hair clinging to the sweat at your neck.

Your voice is hoarse. Your makeup’s half melted. And your blood is still loud in your veins.

You stumble offstage half-running, a crew member handing you a water bottle you don’t even sip. You tug the in-ears from your head, makeup smudged from your own palms. The sound of your dancers laughing echoes behind you, but you’re not stopping.

Because you know he’s here. He’d told you he might make it. Maybe. If press wrapped early. If flights were on time. If the world didn’t get in the way.

But the second you see the familiar shape leaning against the hallway wall — slouched in a charcoal hoodie, hood up, arms crossed, chewing on a ring like he always does when he’s nervous — your knees almost give out.

Timothée.

Eyes wide. Hair wild. That crooked grin already blooming.

You don’t even speak. Just bolt down the corridor, boots heavy on the concrete, nearly bowling him over as your arms wrap around his neck. His hands catch your waist like instinct — soft, strong, safe.

And you kiss him.

Right there, in the hallway behind Wembley Arena.

It’s not planned. Not soft. Not hidden.

It’s fierce. A little messy. Fast and full of everything you’ve held back: the missed calls, the tabloid rumors, the careful distance backstage at last month’s awards show.

For a moment, it’s only that. His hands on your back, your fingers in his curls, the thunder of both your hearts in your ears.

A backstage tech stumbles past. Someone gasps. And you know a photo was just taken — someone’s iPhone catching it, fuzzy and bright under the stage rig lights.

But you don’t care.

His lips are warm, tasting faintly like mint and something heavier. You’re still panting from the show. His fingers grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You pull back slightly — breath ghosting between you.

“You weren’t in the crowd,” you murmur, too soft for anyone else to hear.

He smiles, forehead resting against yours. “Didn’t want to distract you.”

“You didn’t think I’d look for you anyway?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “I hoped.”

There’s noise behind you. The sound of someone calling your name, laughing, maybe a photographer ducking behind a curtain.

You step backward, smoothing your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding just as fast as yours.

He glances around — realizes what just happened.

“That photo’s already posted, isn’t it?” you ask, grimacing.

He runs a hand through his curls. “Probably.”

But then he looks at you again — really looks. Hair damp at your temples. Skin glowing with sweat and glitter. The unmistakable aftershock of someone who just performed in front of twenty thousand people and still made time to kiss him first.

And something in him softens.

“I don’t care,” he says finally.

You grin, pressing another kiss — quick this time — just under his jaw. “I know.”

He squeezes your hand, twining your fingers together like it’s second nature.

And when you walk back toward the greenroom, heads turning, the internet already catching fire outside this concrete hallway — he doesn’t let go.

Not once.