Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✯disconnection✯

Your POV

"Okay, now it's time to go to sleep," I whisper, standing up from our four year old daughter's bed. 

"But I want another story," she whines. 

"No, y/d/n, I just read five to you. It's time for bed," I tell her. 

"But -" 

"No," I cut her off sharply. She looks at me with widened eyes and nods. I rarely use such a harsh tone of voice with her, but I'm at my wits end right now. I'm exhausted, I've been working over-time at the office, and I've been taking care of y/d/n all by myself for the last week. 

She doesn't say anything, and she pulls her covers up under her chin. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have used that tone with you," I tell her tiredly. "It's just time for bed, and I want you to have enough sleep for tomorrow." 

I push her hair back with one hand. 

"I love you," I whisper. 

"I love you too," she whispers back. "Can you tell daddy to come say goodnight when he gets home?" she asks tentatively. 

I purse my lips as a flash of anger runs through me. That's the real reason she wants to read so many books - to stay up later so she might see him. He's barely been home in the last week. 

"Yep," I lie to her, knowing full well that neither of us will wake her up when he returns. 

*** 

Two hours later I'm sitting on our living room couch, still waiting for him to return. Usually I'd just go to bed, but I'm mad. I'm really, really mad. I'm watching a random movie on Netflix, not really paying attention to what's going on, but sitting there with my arms and legs crossed, literally glaring at the screen. 

He's filming something right now, conveniently close enough to where we live that he can stay home for the time being. He'll have to leave and travel soon, and we were looking forward to having him home for a few more weeks, but he's been going out with the cast almost every single night after he's done. I get it - it's bonding, and it's a part of his job. But I work too, and I'm sick of wearing myself out taking care of y/d/n all alone. 

The opening of our front door snaps me out of my stream of disgruntled thoughts. 

He's back. 

The door shuts quietly, and I hear him set his bag down on the floor and kick off his shoes. He walks over to the living room, and I see him standing in the doorway. 

Just looking at him sort of makes my anger ebb away. It's not worth an argument to bring this up. He's working hard too - just in a different way. 

"Hey," he says with a soft smile. "I didn't think you'd still be up." 

"Yeah." 

He sits next to me on the couch and glances over at me, a little thrown off by my short answer. I keep my eyes trained on the screen before glancing back at him. 

"So... how was work?" I ask, trying to fix my demeanor. Trying to seem less upset. 

"It was good. I did a lot of filming today. And we went to a new club when we were done filming this afternoon, so that was fun," he says, leaning back. 

I bite the inside of my cheek, staring straight forward. 

"Um... is something wrong?" he asks. 

"Nope."

"Are you sure? Because you're glaring at the TV and you seem upset," he says. 

"Well, I'm not upset!" I say loudly.