You’d always laughed at people who said don’t meet your heroes. Like meeting Timothée Chalamet was ever going to happen outside of daydreams and movie posters. He was a name on a screen, a face on magazine covers, someone you admired from a safe, impossible distance.

Until it wasn’t impossible.

It started at a premiere. You weren’t supposed to be there — a friend of a friend had an extra ticket, you showed up nervous and giddy, just happy to be in the same room as him. When he brushed past you on the carpet, suit sharp, curls loose, you’d told yourself it would end there. A memory. A story you’d tell later.

But then his eyes caught yours. And stayed.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt, not some fairytale instant. It was something quieter. He smiled, almost to himself, like he recognized you though he couldn’t possibly. And later, when the crowd thinned and the chaos dulled, you ended up next to him at the after-party. You’d said something stupid — a joke about one of his older roles, the kind only a real fan would know — and instead of brushing it off, he laughed. Really laughed.

That was the crack in the wall.

Weeks later, you still couldn’t quite believe it when your phone lit up with his name. When he texted you about the songs he couldn’t stop playing, or the script he was stressing over, or how the city looked different when he knew you were in it.

Dating him didn’t erase the fact that you’d once been a fan — it made it stranger, softer. Sometimes you’d catch yourself staring, realizing you knew his face before you knew his touch. That you’d memorized his interviews long before you memorized the sound of his laugh in your ear.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

Later, the two of you ended up on his couch, shoes kicked off, your head tucked against his shoulder. His hand traced lazy patterns over your arm, the kind of touch that was thoughtless but full of weight.

“You still keep those ticket stubs?” he asked suddenly, a smile tugging at his voice.

You turned your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, pressing his cheek against your hair. “Good. I like knowing I’m dating my number one fan.”

You nudged him with your elbow, but his arm only tightened around you, pulling you in closer.

“Reckon you’ll keep me around long enough to collect a few more?” he teased, quiet, almost testing.

The question hung there, easy to answer — and easier still to keep going from.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he’d murmur one night, his arm heavy around your waist.

“Like what?”

“Like you still can’t believe it’s me.” His voice dropped, almost shy. “I’m just a guy, you know?”

But you did believe it. Because the boy the world called untouchable was the same one who stole your hoodie when you weren’t looking, who made you playlists, who kissed you slow when no one else was around.

And maybe once, he’d been your favorite actor. But now, he was just yours.