Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✻the oscars✻

Your POV

"Okay... okay. I can do this," I assure myself. I stare straight into my own eyes' reflection in the mirror.

"Y/N? Are you ready?" It's Timmy's publicist, Cora, knocking on the bathroom door.

"Yep!" I call back, adjusting my black dress one last time before swinging the door open. I'm in our hotel room, and Cora came to pick me up and meet Timmy at the building where he's getting ready with a team of professionals. They told me I could get ready there too, but I wanted to do this all on my own, and I think I did an alright job.

"Wow. You look stunning," Cora says, scanning my dress.

"Thank you," I say, smiling as I grab my purse and phone. "Okay. Let's do this," I say. I follow her out of my room and to the elevators.

"Seriously, he's going to love your look," she says, noticing me check my reflection in the mirrored elevator's walls.

"It's not him I'm nervous about... it's all of the press," I say, adjusting my hair, which is pulled into a low bun. My dress is simple; it cuts just above the knee, has a plunging neckline that ends just above my belly button, and mesh, flowy sleeves that synch around my wrists. I like it, but I can't help fear that if I move in the wrong way I'll completely expose myself.

"Don't worry about the press. It will be totally fine," she assures me.

Fifteen minutes later, we're getting out of the car and standing in front of the building where Timmy is getting ready. We stand and wait for a moment, after thanking the driver, before Timmy emerges from the doors.

My breath hitches.

He looks incredible. He's wearing an emerald green velvet suit, his curls perfectly tousled, and his perfect, infectious smile painted across his face. I walks straight up to me, biting his lip.

"Y/N... Wow," he says, running his hands down my arms and squeezing my hands.

"I could say the same thing about you," I say, smiling at him. God, he's so perfect.

He leans into my ear.

"You look fucking incredible," he says, in a low voice. I giggle like an idiot. His words do things to me.

Cora clears her throat next to us.

"Guys, I hate to ruin this perfect moment, but we've got to get going," she says, pointing at the limo that has just arrived. To my dismay, Timmy pulls away from me, but continues to hold my hand as we climb into the limo.

I will never get used to the small luxuries that come with dating a movie star.

The whole ride, I am bouncing my knees with anxiety. I of course want Timmy to win, but what I'm most nervous about is the press. All those flashing lights, and the interviewers who ask way-too-personal questions.

"Hey, are you okay?" Timmy leans over and asks, noticing my lip biting and fidgeting fingers.

"Yeah... I'm just nervous about the press. The only thing I've ever been to was the Independent Film Awards, and that was, like, way smaller than the Oscars," I say.

"Don't worry about the press. I won't leave your side the entire time, I swear," he says, placing one hand on my knee and squeezing it reassuringly. I smile at his sweetness.

We finally arrive, and the second we climb out of the limo and onto the red carpet all I can see are cameras flashing.

Timmy grabs my hand and squeezes it before guiding me along side him. I'm instantly comforted, and as the first news camera approaches us, I swell with pride at his accomplishments. My nerves are gone; I'm just here to support him, and watch him win.