The Halloween party was already in full chaos — lights dimmed orange, bass shaking the floor, someone’s fog machine working overtime. You weren’t even supposed to come. Your friends had dragged you out last minute, promising “It’ll be fun, just wear something simple!”

So you’d gone as Emily — the Corpse Bride. Blue face paint, dark eyeshadow, veil barely pinned in place. You’d even memorized a few lines for the bit.

And then he walked in.

At first, you didn’t notice him — not until your friend nearly choked on her drink. “You’re kidding,” she whispered, elbowing you. “Look.”

Across the room, half in shadow, stood Victor. Pale makeup. Black suit. Hair neatly parted and slicked back in that anxious, old-fashioned way — like he’d just stepped out of a Tim Burton frame. Same faintly haunted look in his eyes. Except this Victor wasn’t animated — he was very real, very alive, and very much Timothée Chalamet.

You blinked. He blinked back.

And then — the tiniest smirk.

For a moment, the party noise blurred into something soft and absurd.

Then he smiled — that small, half-crooked one that somehow made it worse. “Guess we didn’t coordinate this, huh?”

You laughed, brushing at the tulle of your skirt. “Nope. But clearly, one of us has good taste.”

“Clearly me,” he said, too fast, too defensive, before realizing what he’d just admitted. His ears went a little pink.

Someone nearby shouted, “You guys have to get a picture!”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest when he held out his phone. The flash went off — you two, shoulder to shoulder, him looking a little too smug, you pretending not to enjoy it.

“Looks good.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face — not flirty, not quite. Curious. Familiar, like he was trying to place you. “I’m Timothée, by the way.”

“I know,” you said, smiling. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “And you are?”

“Apparently,” you said, gesturing between you, “your undead bride.”

He laughed — quiet but genuine. “Well then,” he said, raising his glass slightly, “to fate’s questionable sense of humor.”

You clinked your cup against his.

And maybe it was just the costume, or the buzz of Halloween lights around you, but when your eyes met again — it didn’t feel like an accident at all.