The Vanity Fair after-party smells like expensive perfume and secrets.

Everyone’s dressed like a dream and pretending not to look over their shoulders — checking who just walked in, who just left, who’s still talking about the awards like they didn’t just watch someone else win. And in the middle of it all is him.

You spot Timothée before he spots you — half-sunken into a velvet booth, collarbone gleaming where his shirt is slightly undone. The tailored satin of his tux catches every glint of the rotating lights. There’s a drink in his hand. Something amber. Something strong.

He sees you and stands a little too fast.

“You made it,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist like he needs the grounding.

“I said I would,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. He still smells like expensive cologne and aftershave, but under it all — nerves.

He lost.

Not dramatically. Not unexpectedly. But enough that it still sits heavy on his shoulders, even under the charm he’s trained himself to perform.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

You arch a brow.

“Okay,” he amends, “I’m, like, seventy percent fine. Maybe sixty.”

You guide him back into the booth, fingers trailing over the rings on his hand. He’s already downed half the drink, his words slower than usual, looser at the edges.

“I wore the wrong thing,” he mutters. “Should’ve gone shirtless again. You think the Academy votes based on abs?”

You laugh softly. “You want honesty?”

“I want tequila,” he pouts.

You order it for him. When it comes, he clinks his glass against yours and says, “To peaking in 2017.”

But when you shake your head, smile soft and sure, he corrects himself:

“To the person who makes losing feel like a win.”

He says it casually, like it’s a throwaway joke. But his eyes flick to your lips and linger there. Like he means it.

Later, when the crowd is louder, when the dance floor is full of people too famous to sweat, he’ll pull you in by the waist and whisper something reckless. Something like, “Let’s leave. Let’s get fries. Let’s drive until this whole night feels like a dream.”

But for now, it’s just you, him, a half-finished drink, and the slow-sinking realization that he doesn’t need a golden statue to feel golden.

He’s already got you.