The headlines had already said enough. Timothée Chalamet’s mystery girlfriend — younger, always somewhere just out of frame. You’d learned not to look at the flashes anymore. Cameras were a different kind of storm — bright, cold, and everywhere he went.

But here, there were no cameras. Just his apartment, dim and quiet, rain dragging lazy lines down the windows. A record spun in the corner — George Michael’s “Father Figure” — his choice, not yours. The needle crackled between verses, soft and old and strangely intimate.

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, hair falling into his eyes. A script was open beside him, pages smudged with pencil notes. But he wasn’t reading. His gaze had found you — cross-legged on the rug, sweater slipping off one shoulder, watching the rain.

“You shouldn’t listen to them,” he said finally, his voice rough in that way it always got late at night. “The things people say.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, not quite meeting his eyes. “You mean the ones calling me naïve or you creepy?”

He flinched, just barely, then smiled — small and rueful. “Something like that.”

The song carried on, warm and heavy in the air. “I will be your preacher teacher, anything you have in mind…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head tilted. “They don’t get it. You make me feel—” he broke off, searching for it. “—steady. Like I can breathe.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The boy who was supposed to have the world, sitting there barefoot, still mouthing along to the lyrics of a song older than both of you.

“Steady?” you echoed. “You sure about that?”

His grin returned — soft, self-deprecating. “I’m working on it.”

You laughed quietly, leaning back on your hands, watching the glow from the record player flicker over his face. There was something dangerous about loving him — the way he drew people in, the way he made you feel older and younger all at once.

He reached over, brushing his fingers against your wrist. “You know,” he said, low enough to almost be lost in the chorus, “you make me want to be good.”

You felt your throat tighten. “You already are.”

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “No. You just make me look that way.”

The song hit its final refrain — “I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine…” — and his hand slipped into yours, fitting there too easily, like something inevitable.

Outside, the city blurred beneath the rain. Inside, he watched you with that same quiet awe — half promise, half apology — like he knew what the world said about you both, and didn’t care.

Because for tonight, it was just the two of you. And the world could wait.