He warned you this might happen.

Back when it was still all hotel hallways and sunglasses after midnight. Back when “just friends” could pass without comment and no one looked too closely at how his hand lingered on your lower back. You were a secret tucked into coat collars and private Ubers, barely visible between rehearsals and red carpets.

But tonight… someone looked.

The club was dim, pulsing. Your head was a little fuzzy from half a cocktail too many, and Timothée had found you again by the booth—after vanishing into the crowd like mist, like smoke—his hand sliding onto your thigh beneath the velvet tablecloth.

“You good?” he asked, voice low enough that it didn’t need to hide.

You nodded. It had been a long week. A longer year. And it felt oddly easy to lean into his side, to let him press a kiss behind your ear while the bass swallowed it whole.

That should’ve been the end of it. Should’ve remained just one of those nights. Forgettable.

But then someone—some kid, probably—snapped a photo. Just a flash. Bright, careless, and too fast to stop. Your heads were tilted together, lips too close. Your fingers were resting on the fray of his torn jeans, and he wasn’t pulling away.

You didn’t notice the camera until the damage was already done.

Back at his apartment, hours later, you both stared at the blurry Instagram post in silence.

He was chewing on a pen cap, pacing shirtless by the window, muttering about PR nightmares and how he should’ve known better. But then he looked over, brows raised like it was your call. Like you were the one being asked to put your name next to his in headlines.

“We can still say it was nothing,” he offered. His voice was too casual. Too careful.

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the city glow below, the lights soft and indifferent. It wasn’t nothing. Not to you.

Timothée stayed quiet for a long while after that—long enough that the silence settled, heavy. He stopped pacing. Just stood there, silhouetted by the window, one hand in his hair, the other clenched.

Finally, his voice cut through, brittle and almost tired.

“You know they’ll pick you apart,” he said. “They’ll find something to hate. They always do.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just turned back toward the glass, watching the night go on without either of you.