Timothee Chalamet is a well-known photographer in the fashion industry. Talented, handsome, and unfortunately for you, married...
Y/N L/N the new model hottie in the bussiness. Talented, young, and she always gets what she wants.
Timothee Chalamet x...
For the past week, Timothee and Y/N hadn’t been able to meet properly. They’d decided to lay low, a necessary precaution after a disastrous encounter at the Four Seasons Hotel the previous week.
--Flashback--
The clandestine rendezvous had been meticulously planned. Timothee, stifled by weeks of stolen glances and whispered conversations at the office, had booked a room under a false name – Mr. Evans. He envisioned a stolen afternoon with Y/N, a brief escape from the prying eyes of their colleagues, and most significantly, his wife, Cristina.
He arrived early, his heart hammering a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He checked into Room 302, the air thick with anticipation. He paced the luxurious lobby, pretending to examine a brochure, his gaze constantly sweeping the entrance. He didn't know why, but something in his gut told him that something was gonna happen.
The hotel was opulent, a world away from their usual coffee-shop trysts, a testament to the lengths he was willing to go to be with Y/N.
Then he saw her: Christina, his wife, radiating an effortless elegance that always both captivated and unnerved him. That's when he knew, his gut was right. Before he could even consider hiding, she spotted him.
“Timothee?” she asked, her voice controlled, curious, and laced with a subtle note of something else… suspicion?
"Christina," he stammered, forcing a casual tone that felt far too brittle. "What a… coincidence. What are you doing here?" He smoothed his tie, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to break.
Christina raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her gaze unwavering. "I'm here for a spa day. Needed some me-time," she replied, carefully avoiding his eyes. The coolness in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she too was hiding something or that knew more than she was letting on.
Timothee shifted uncomfortably, the expensive marble floor beneath his feet suddenly feeling cold and unwelcoming. "A spa day? Here?" He said in curiosity but also suspicion, still, he felt the sweat beading on his forehead, a stark contrast to the cool, controlled composure he was desperately attempting to maintain.
"Yes," she responded, a subtle smile playing on her lips. "They have an amazing aromatherapy massage. Highly recommended." Then, her voice taking on a sharper edge, she added, "What about you? You wouldn't happen to be waiting for someone, would you?"
Timothee’s heart pounded. He searched for a believable excuse, his mind racing. "Actually," he began, his voice cracking slightly, "I'm… meeting an old friend here for drinks. He's staying at the hotel. A college buddy I haven't seen in ages." It sounded flimsy even to his own ears, a transparent lie barely masking the truth.
Just then, he saw Y/N. She entered the hotel, her eyes sparkling with the promise of their stolen meeting, utterly oblivious to the impending disaster. Before Timothee could even attempt to intercept her, Christina stepped directly in front of Y/N, blocking her path.
"Y/N," Christina said, her voice sharp and precise. The carefully controlled tone only heightened the sense of menace. "Fancy seeing you here. Didn't know you were so fond of this hotel's… uh… amenities." Her tone dripped with undisguised suspicion, a chillingly accurate mimicry of Timothee’s own forced casualness. "Big shoot? Or something?" Her gaze lingered, lingering far too long, on Y/N’s stylish, yet understated outfit, her eyes the keen and assessing gaze of a seasoned fashion editor. The unspoken question hung heavy in the air: Or are you here for something else?
Y/N, caught completely off guard, quickly recovered, attempting a bright, strained smile. "Oh, hi Christina...and Timothee! Total coincidence. I'm actually here for a spa treatment with some friends. Long overdue girls' day, you know?" She offered a nervous laugh.
Christina's gaze didn’t soften. She studied Y/N, her expression unreadable. "Right," she responded, her tone betraying a deep skepticism that Y/N couldn’t possibly miss. The unspoken question, the accusation, hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.
Timothee stood paralyzed, watching the scene unfold, his carefully constructed fantasy dissolving into a chaotic reality. His perfect plan, his elaborate lie, his stolen afternoon… it was all crumbling before his eyes. He was frozen, trapped in a silent tableau of his own making, caught between his wife's suspicion and his lover's naivete.
____________________________
A week later, the office was deserted, the hum of the city a distant drone outside the large windows. Timothee and Y/N stood close, the faint scent of stale coffee barely masking the electric tension that crackled between them.
They couldn’t deny the pull any longer. The disastrous encounter at the Four Seasons had nearly ripped them apart, but their undeniable attraction burned brighter than ever, a fierce flame fueled by shared guilt and forbidden desire.
"I couldn't resist," Timothee admitted, his voice husky, a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached out, gently tracing the line of her jawline with his fingertip, his touch light, almost hesitant.
Y/N giggled softly, leaning into his touch, her breath warm against his skin. "Neither could I, you know. Some challenges," she replied, her voice playful, yet tinged with a hint of worry, "simply make things more…interesting." Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something else, a vulnerability that tugged at the core of his being.
The stolen moment in the empty office felt both thrilling and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of discovery. The weight of their secret, the risk they were both taking, hung heavy in the air. But in that moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the deserted office, surrounded by the ever-present threat of exposure, the thrill of their forbidden connection outweighed every fear. They kissed, a long, slow kiss that whispered promises and held secrets, a kiss that defied the consequences and embraced the intoxicating risk of their clandestine affair.
The silence that followed was charged, electric. They held each other close, the warmth of their bodies a stark contrast to the chill of the office night. The unspoken words hung between them—a potent mixture of passion, guilt, and the exhilarating thrill of the forbidden. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, lost in the intoxicating pull of their unspoken desires, their clandestine rendezvous a testament to their powerful, and impossibly dangerous, connection. The game was far from over, and the consequences loomed, but in that moment, nothing else mattered.
"So you wanna put that sofa bed into use again?"
"Absofuckinglutely."
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Hi, did you guys miss me? Sorry this took so long, I've been really unmotivated as of late. 🥹
