Timothée Chalamet had a habit of twisting the rings on his fingers when he was anxious.

You watched him from the corner of your eye in the backseat of the car, the way he rolled the silver bands up and down his knuckles, legs bouncing lightly against the leather seat. Outside, the crowd was already pressed tight against the barricades, a restless sea of cameras and flashing lights.

He caught you looking and offered a crooked smile, somewhere between excitement and terror. You bumped his knee with yours, a silent we’ll survive this—the same promise you’d been giving him all morning.

The car jerked to a stop. The door flew open.

The noise hit first—shouts, your names, the dull roar of hundreds of voices tripping over each other just to be heard. Security moved fast, carving a path, and Timothée gripped your hand as you slid out onto the sidewalk.

The world tilted sideways for a second—so many flashes that it looked like lightning—and then you were moving, heads ducked, laughing breathlessly as you pushed through.

A hand grabbed at your coat. Timothée pulled you closer. You caught a glimpse of his profile under the camera flashes—sharp jaw, wild curls, eyes wide and shining—and then the lobby doors swung open and swallowed you whole.

The silence inside was jarring.

You leaned against the wall, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. Timothée stood a few feet away, running a hand through his hair, rings glinting under the fluorescent lights.

He was still a little dazed as an assistant with a clipboard materialized, frantically motioning you both down a side hallway.

The press room wasn’t glamorous—beige walls, rows of folding chairs, a rickety stage at the front—but it smelled like fresh coffee and cheap perfume, and honestly, it felt like heaven after the chaos outside.

You and Timothée slipped into your seats at the long table just as the moderator tapped the microphone.

He leaned in close, voice low, conspiratorial. “If I say something stupid, you have full permission to punch me under the table.”

You nudged your knee against his, grinning. “Deal. But I get to punch you even if you don’t.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes crinkling at the corners. The sound settled somewhere in your chest, warm and familiar.

The first question buzzed through the speakers. Flashes popped from the rows of cameras. The world leaned in, waiting.

But for a second, it was just the two of you. And somehow, it was easy to breathe.