You’d both arrived early for the Vanity Fair interview — or early enough to pretend you weren’t timing it to each other. The lights were bright, the kind that made everything look cleaner, softer, easier to believe. You sat across from him at a small table — two stacks of cards between you, the Vanity Fair logo on the backdrop.

The movie hadn’t even premiered yet, and people were already talking. About the chemistry. The trailer had dropped a week ago — two minutes and sixteen seconds of stolen glances, too-close scenes, and one line delivery that had practically set social media on fire.

Timothée leaned back in his chair, curls falling over his forehead, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look nervous,” he said, voice low, teasing.

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the first card. “You first.”

He shook his head. “No way. You’re braver.”

You sighed, glancing down. “Alright. ‘Describe your first impression of me.’”

His smile lingered, but he didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you — really looked — before saying, quietly, “Trouble.”

It wasn’t the kind of answer meant for the cameras. You smiled anyway, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to give your hands something to do.

He picked up his own card. “Who broke character more?”

You didn’t have to think. “You.”

His laugh came easily, warm and familiar. “I knew you’d say that.”

The crew laughed somewhere behind the lights, but neither of you turned. His hand brushed the next card, though he didn’t look at it — just at you, that same unreadable mix of focus and amusement.

It was supposed to be a quick promo — ten minutes of light banter and practiced charm. But the way his eyes lingered, the quiet that stretched between your half-finished questions — it felt like something else.

Something neither of you were quite ready to name.