You weren’t used to this.

Not the cameras, not the fame — not even the fact that your boyfriend’s face was plastered across billboards. No, what you weren’t used to was him.

Timothée.

He was in the kitchen, sleeves shoved up, drying the dishes after making you dinner. The same guy who spent all day on set, who had scripts piling up in his bag, was now humming under his breath and stacking plates like it was second nature.

You leaned against the doorway, half in awe, half turned on. Because it wasn’t just the dishes. It was everything.

The way he washed the dishes without being asked, sleeves rolled up, curls falling in his face. The way he didn’t just set up the IKEA chair you ordered but read the directions out loud, mocking himself for every mistake until it was perfect. The way he leaned over after, smug as hell, and said, “Sturdy enough for you to sit on my lap at the same time?”

You couldn’t even roll your eyes properly, not when he grabbed his phone off the counter and actually answered a text back in real time. No “left on read.” No ghosting. Just: Yeah, babe. Be right there.

And through it all, he treated you like you were the only thing that mattered. No games. No power trips. Just… respect.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder, curls falling into his eyes.

You blinked, caught. “I just… I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

That grin — slow, crooked, knowing. He tossed the dish towel onto the counter and crossed the kitchen in three easy strides, hands slipping around your waist. “I’m very real,” he murmured, leaning down until his breath warmed your skin.

And god, you believed him. Every little thing he did just pulled you deeper — even the simple things, the ordinary things. Because when Timothée did them, it didn’t feel ordinary at all. It felt like everything.