The studio called it strategy. A way to keep the movie in headlines, build chemistry in the public eye, get people talking. The two of you had laughed it off at first. Pretending to be in love for a movie? Easy. You were actors. It’s what you did best.

At first, it was easy. Hand-in-hand for the paparazzi at premieres, a soft laugh timed perfectly when he whispered something in your ear, the way his arm fit around your waist like it had been rehearsed. And it had been. Every look, every brush of skin, every photo-op was calculated.

The flashbulbs were relentless, burning white stars across your vision. Timothée’s hand slid around your waist just before you stepped onto the carpet, the motion so smooth it could’ve been scripted. Maybe it was. In a way, everything about this was.

But now, with his palm pressed just firm enough against your hip, his mouth curved into that familiar, almost secret smile as the photographers screamed his name, you wondered if you were too good at it.

“Look at me,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, his lips barely moving. You did, and instantly the cameras went feral — a sea of flashes popping off like lightning. His gaze lingered on you just long enough to blur the line between pretend and something else.

And you smiled because cameras were watching. But maybe not just because.

The next morning, you were both running on too little sleep when you ducked into a corner café. Hoodies pulled tight, masks on, sunglasses even though the sky was gray. You could feel the paparazzi across the street — the subtle tilt of long lenses aimed at the fogged windows.

Timothée leaned against the counter, hair mussed, murmuring something to the barista that made her laugh before he slid a steaming paper cup toward you. “The usual.”

You smirked, wrapping your hands around the warmth, the faint scent of coffee and his cologne hanging between you.

He tugged his mask down, just enough to flash that quick, crooked grin. “Come on.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, soft in a way the cameras outside would never catch.

You both sat by the window, cups in hand, pretending not to notice when someone outside lifted their phone. You leaned your chin into your palm, watching him over the rim of your cup. He shifted his chair closer, knee brushing yours.

And in the photo the tabloids would post that afternoon, it looked exactly like what the studio wanted: two actors, lost in each other. But sitting there, hoodie sleeves too long, coffee warming your palms, you weren’t sure the line between pretend and something else existed anymore.