Timothée’s hand hasn’t left yours since you walked out the door.

You’re not even halfway to the car before he’s bumping your shoulder with his, grinning like it physically hurts to keep it in. “Did I tell you how good you look?”

“You did,” you laugh, swinging your joined hands a little. “Three times before we even got in the elevator.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “just making sure you heard me.”

The sidewalk is chaos — flashes, shouting, the usual blur of paparazzi and city noise — but Timothée doesn’t even glance at them. He’s too busy adjusting the collar of your coat, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve, whispering something about how “criminally good” your shoes look.

At the event, you’re swept into a glossy blur — red carpet flashbulbs, velvet ropes, people calling both your names like they know you. Timothée stays close, always. His fingers at the small of your back. His laugh low against your ear when someone asks who you’re wearing and you answer, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And still, even there — under the cameras, the eyes, the noise — he watches you. Watches you fix your lipstick in the reflection of a champagne flute. Watches you laugh politely at someone’s terrible joke and tuck your hair behind your ear the way you always do when you’re trying not to yawn.

He watches you in mirrors, in chrome-plated corners, in passing car windows. Like he’s storing you in pieces. Like this is all for him. You pretend not to notice. Mostly. But you feel it. Every time his gaze lingers. Every time he looks at you like he’s in a movie and doesn’t care who sees the ending coming.

And later — after the lights and the noise and the thousand little conversations neither of you can remember — he pulls you into the front seat of the car, presses a kiss to your temple and nudges your leg. “Can we get food? I’m starving.”

You blink at him. “It’s midnight.”

You end up in a booth that smells like syrup and burnt coffee. A place with flickering lights and a jukebox that hasn’t worked in years. It’s nearly 1AM. You’re still in your red carpet clothes. Timothée’s ditched his blazer but his curls are messy now, his tie hanging loose around his neck.

He orders pancakes and a milkshake. You get fries. He steals the fries. You pretend not to notice.

He’s quieter now. But not distant. Just watching you like the way you stir your soda with a straw is cinematic. Like the smear of lipstick on your glass could be a museum piece.

“You know,” he says, voice soft around the steam of his coffee, “I’d go to every stupid event in the world if it meant ending the night like this. Just us. You in that dress. No one else.”

Your foot bumps his under the table. He grins.

Outside, the city’s still buzzing — horns and heat and neon echo — but in here it’s just warmth. Timothée humming a song you don’t recognize. His hand resting on yours between bites. Your name mouthed like a secret prayer.

And maybe the booth is sticky. And maybe the light’s a little too yellow.

But you’ve never felt more golden.