You weren’t supposed to be on set that day.

You were just dropping off coffee for your friend who worked in costume, weaving through cables and half-built sets when you collided with someone—hard.

“I’m so sorry—” you started, then froze.

Timothée Chalamet blinked down at you, equally startled, curls falling into his eyes. “Oh—hey. That was… definitely my fault.”

Your tea/coffee somehow hadn’t spilled. A miracle.

He smiled, that shy, crooked smile that felt warmer than the studio lights. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing. “Yeah. I just—uh—wasn’t looking.”

“Same,” he laughed quietly. “Story of my life.”

There was an awkward pause. The kind that felt electric instead of uncomfortable.

“You’re not crew, are you?” he asked.

“No. I’m just—” You gestured vaguely. “Lost. Emotionally and geographically.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “Relatable.”

Before you could think too hard about it, he said, “Do you want to walk with me? I’m heading to my next scene, and I could use company.”

So you did.

You walked beside him past bustling assistants and towering cameras, talking about everything and nothing—favorite movies, the best kind of coffee, how weird it was that life could change just by bumping into someone.

When you reached his set, he slowed.

“I’m really glad you ran into me,” he said quietly, eyes warm. “Even if it hurt a little.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

He hesitated, then scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to you.

“Just in case,” he said.

It was his number.

the day just got even better