You weren’t even supposed to be there.

The gallery was a last-minute invite — a friend bailed, and the curator needed someone who actually understood lighting. You showed up in a faded black jacket, jeans with camera lens caps in the pockets, and a pair of worn sneakers no one would mistake for fashionable.

And then they walked in.

Kathryn Hahn in velvet, all loose laughter and sharp eyes. Elizabeth Olsen just behind her, a little softer, quieter — until her gaze found your work.

A black-and-white photo of two women holding hands through a curtain of rain. It was all shadow and longing and silhouettes.

“This one’s not staged,” Elizabeth said quietly, beside you.

You blinked. You hadn’t noticed her there. Or maybe you had, but hadn’t dared to believe.

“You took this?” she asked.

You nodded.

She smiled like it meant something.

“It feels like falling in love in secret.”

“That’s exactly what it was,” you answered — and she didn’t ask for details.

But Kathryn came next. Loud, proud, electric.

“So you’re the ghost with the camera? No artist bio. No website. No card.” She raised an eyebrow. “Very mysterious.”

“I didn’t expect anyone famous to care,” you admitted.

Kathryn leaned closer.

“Honey… you just captured something most films can’t fake.”

The three of you talked all night.

And then again. Over coffee. At a bookstore. At Kathryn’s place. Over long texts and ridiculous memes and voice notes you played again just to hear their laughter.

⸻

Six Months Later

You’re in bed — not their bed. Yours. A small apartment, draped in mismatched fabrics, lens cases, and a cat that refuses to respect personal space.

Kathryn’s propped up beside you, wearing one of your oversized shirts.

Lizzie’s at the window in nothing but her bra and a borrowed robe, sipping tea and watching the city blur into dawn.

“Can I ask you something?” Kathryn murmurs.

You nod, heart in your throat.

“Does it ever get weird? With… you know. The difference in fame. Or in age.”

You glance at Lizzie, who turns, caught but not ashamed. Her smile is soft, but there’s a question in her eyes too.

You sit up.

“I’m not a tabloid girl. I’m not an actress. I take photos of life because I don’t want to be in front of it. But…” “You two? You don’t make me feel small. You make me feel chosen.”

Kathryn exhales, something loosening in her.

Elizabeth crosses the room and kisses your temple.

“You know we talked about you for weeks before either of us made a move?” she whispers. “We didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “You ruined me for anyone else.”

Kathryn laughs.

“Well, damn. That’s hot.”

You fall back into the pillows, tangled in limbs and laughter and morning light.

⸻

One Month Later: The First Red Carpet

You’re not in the photos. You’re behind them.

But Elizabeth glances over her shoulder more than once.

And Kathryn’s grin seems to aim itself just off-camera — right at you.

Afterward, Lizzie pulls you close backstage, whispering in your ear:

“I know it’s strange, loving two women who live like this. But I wouldn’t trade this life — or you — for a quiet one.”

You kiss her.

Kathryn’s hand slips into yours seconds later.

“You ground us,” she murmurs. “And baby, you have no idea how much we needed that.”