The first thing I noticed about Tom Blyth was how effortlessly composed he looked.
I’d just arrived at the table. Table 7, apparently reserved for some terrifyingly talented group of people when I saw him across the white linen and scattered crystal glasses. He stood as I approached, polite, a little old-school maybe, offering a half-smile that made something under my skin spark.
"Hi, I think this is me," I said, gesturing at the card with my name in gold print.
He glanced at it, then back at me. "Then this is fate," he joked, pulling out the chair for me. “Tom.”
“I know,” I grinned, sitting down. “Y/N.”
He chuckled as he settled beside me. "I know."
The BAFTAs were always this strange mix of nerves and glamour. I’d been before, but it never felt normal maybe because it never was. The cameras, the expectation, the steady weight of knowing that somewhere your reaction might become a meme. But sitting next to Tom, things felt different.
“Have you ever actually eaten at one of these things?” I asked, nodding at the pristine starter in front of us.
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Once. Regretted it deeply. Nearly choked on an amuse-bouche while Olivia Colman was talking.”
I burst out laughing, too loud for the occasion maybe, but he joined in, and soon enough we were in our own little bubble like the glittering room had melted away and it was just us and the candlelight flickering between us.
Over the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing. Our worst auditions, the bizarre things fans had shouted across airports, the joys of Pret’s mislabelled toasties. Every time I glanced up, he was already looking at me with that curious glint in his eye, like he wanted to learn every part of me in a single evening.
At some point, they started filming.
“Do we look stiff?” I whispered.
Tom shrugged, leaning closer. “I think we look like we’re plotting something.”
“Oh good. I’d love to trend on Twitter for ‘Sinister BAFTA Duo.’”
“Actually,” he said, flicking his eyes to the camera crew that was slowly circling tables, “I’d bet money we’ll be trending for something.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Because somewhere in the mix of leaning too close, the light catching on his smile, and my hand brushing his wrist as I reached for my drink people noticed.
The internet noticed.
I found out the next morning.
My phone buzzed non-stop. At first I assumed I’d forgotten to silence a group chat, but no it was Twitter. And TikTok. And Instagram. My mentions were full of screenshots, slowed-down videos, heart-eyed emojis, and phrases like:
THE EYE CONTACT. I REPEAT, THE EYE CONTACT.
Y/N and Tom Blyth were flirting so hard I blushed through my screen.
BAFTA’s hottest couple, don’t @ me.
The most viral video was a clip of us laughing about something I’d thrown my head back, and Tom had leaned in, eyes fixed on me like I was made of gold.
I stared at my phone in disbelief. Then, it buzzed again.
Tom Blyth:
Got your number from Alice (hope that’s alright!)
I think the internet might’ve fallen in love with us last night…
Want to meet up and give them something real to talk about?
It took me three whole minutes to respond, because I was frozen. Not out of nerves, but… excitement. He got it. He saw the humour, the charm, and still he asked.
Y/N:
I’m free Thursday. Pick a place that doesn’t serve amuse-bouches.
Tom:
Done. 7pm. No amuse-bouches. Just you and me.
Thursday came, and with it, the kind of butterflies I hadn’t felt in ages.
I wore something understated but soft, a dusty blue dress that felt like me, paired with my favourite boots. Tom met me outside a quiet little place tucked away in Soho, wearing a navy coat and that same half-smile I was quickly becoming obsessed with.
“You look…” he paused, giving me a once-over, “like you walked off a French film set.”
“And you look like you stole someone’s heart and didn’t apologise for it.”
He smirked. “Guilty.”
Inside, it was dim and warm, the kind of place where nobody would bother us. Over wine and a shared plate of pasta because he insisted everything tasted better shared we talked. And I don’t mean small talk. I mean real talk.
He asked about my childhood. I asked about his. He confessed he nearly quit acting once. I told him I’d secretly auditioned for a role in The Hunger Games spinoff just to see what the hype was about.
He laughed so hard he nearly choked on a breadstick.
Halfway through dessert, he touched my hand.
“Can I be honest?” he asked.
I nodded.
“That night at the BAFTAs I’ve never clicked with someone so fast. I thought maybe it was just the setting, but now? Sitting here? I’m sort of terrified how much I want to see where this goes.”
I squeezed his hand back. “You and me both.”
The paparazzi caught us leaving, but for once, I didn’t mind.
Because the edits were already being made. The headlines were already being drafted.
But this time, we got to write the next part.
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the first time gilbert said those three little words to you was on a sunny spring evening
after school, he had walked you home but on your way there the two of you got sidetracked and ended up strolling through the woods, just talking and laughing together
eventually, you two ended up near a small lake and took a break there
while gilbert sat down near the water, you picked a few flowers that grew nearby, holding them in your hands and admiring them
your eyes were fixated on the pretty flowers, while gilbert's eyes were glued to you
he sat there in silence, until those three little words just spilled over his lips, as if he couldn't keep them to himself anymore
"i love you…"
the way he said those words, you could've sworn that he never said them to anyone else before, nor would he ever tell anyone else
it was like those words were just for you to hear…
when you whipped your head around to look surprised at gilbert, he just smiled softly and apologized
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