You’re curled up on the couch, one leg tossed over Timothée’s lap, half-watching a movie neither of you are paying attention to. His hand rests on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. It’s quiet. Comfortable. Golden hour bleeding through the windows.

You were scrolling through your camera roll. He leaned in to see.

“Wait, that one’s cute,” he said, pointing at a picture from a few minutes earlier — you, laughing mid-blink, his face pressed to your temple, hair a mess. Cozy. Real.

You added it to your Story. Meant to save it. Maybe send it to the Close Friends list.

You didn’t.

The post was live for 43 seconds.

Just long enough.

Long enough for two fan accounts, one gossip page, and at least 15,000 people to screenshot it.

He checks Twitter. “They saw everything.”

The trending tag is already #ChalametMysteryGirl. The screenshots are circulating. The analysis begins: timestamps, nail colors, blurry reflections in the background.

You lunge for your phone, heart in your throat.

You delete it — fast.

But not fast enough.

Because by now, the internet has already seen it.

They’ve zoomed in. They’ve enhanced. They’ve identified the hoodie (his). The couch (his). The freckles on his cheek (also his).

Timothée tosses his phone face-down on the coffee table and flops backward with a groan, one arm over his eyes.

“I’m gonna have to call my publicist.”

You curl tighter into the couch, the weight of it all hitting — the Story, the screen-recordings, the immediate detective work from fans who have definitely pieced together more from less.

“Do you think they know it’s me?” you ask quietly.

He lifts his arm just enough to look at you. “They knew it was you before I did.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off with a half-laugh. “The internet has, like, facial recognition built into their blood at this point. Someone’s already matched your ring to a tagged photo from last fall.”

You groan and let your head drop against his shoulder.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I really didn’t mean to post it.”

“I know.” His voice is soft. “I just wasn’t ready.”

You glance up.

Not angry. Just overwhelmed. Timothée’s always kept his private life sealed behind layers of mystery and quiet retreats. And you — you were supposed to stay behind the curtain. Soft-launch zone only.

“Do you want me to say something?” you ask. “Like a post saying it was old, or fake, or—”

“No.” He sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. I don’t want to lie about you.”

That shuts you up.

A moment of stillness.

Then his hand finds yours, thumb grazing your knuckles.

“If we’re already caught,” he mutters, “might as well make the next post a better picture.”