nova

“Is that what you’re going to wear?”

You almost don’t register that she’s speaking to you. Not until you turn and see Gracie looking directly at you, arms folded, expression unreadable in that very particular producer-y way. You blink once, then again.

“No,” you deadpan. “I’m clearly wearing it five minutes before showtime to waste everyone’s time.”

Her mouth tugs upward slightly, amused. “It’s a very low-cut shirt.”

Her eyes dart downward for a second, like she can’t help it.

You let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “It’s a date, Gracie. I’m supposed to look like I’m somewhat trying to impress the person.”

You say it like it’s obvious. Like the two of you haven’t been doing this together for six years. Like she didn’t watch you change outfits in a panic this morning.

She leans her hip against the nearby folding table. “It wouldn’t be because of a certain guest—”

“Absolutely not,” you cut her off, too quickly. Too firmly. You refuse to even let the thought form. You’re a professional, and it’s insulting she’d even suggest otherwise. “First of all! I’ve worn worse things than this on dates, okay? Remember the date with Raye? I wore that red skirt?”

Her nod is slow. “Hm. How could I forget? The Sun wrote about it. Stephen Moyes basically called you a slut.”

You nod back, the memory crawling back in crystal-clear clarity. “God. That was a good skirt.”

Before either of you can spiral down that rabbit hole again, the door opens and in walks Drew Starkey and his team. He’s not wearing a suit, thank God — just a fitted black tee, his usual gold chain, baseball cap tugged low over his brow. It should’ve helped. It doesn’t.

Because he still looks like he could ruin your entire career with one smile.

Unfortunately, that smile is already forming.

You curse the squeak of your plastic chair as you shift your legs, crossing one over the other, trying not to touch the sticky floor with your open-toe heels. The AC hums overhead, more noise than relief, and the little chicken shop you and Gracie scouted two weeks ago suddenly feels too cramped, too hot, too real. The overhead lighting is merciless, the tiles faded and cracked, and there’s nowhere to hide if your face decides to give you away.

Drew spots you and instantly—instantly—that grin kicks in, slow and crooked. Dangerous.

He’s pulled away before he can reach you, whisked by hair and makeup for a last-minute touch-up. The lights are harsh. Everything looks worse on camera. But he looks happy to be here, and that somehow makes it harder to breathe.

You grab the stack of pre-prepped questions sitting next to you, hand them off to your assistant, and pretend to revise them like your life depends on it. As if memorizing bullet points will help you survive the next thirty minutes.

He finally approaches, steps around the mic setup, and slides into the seat across from you like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like he belongs there.

“Hello,” you say, lifting your chin. “Look who finally showed up.”

“Look at you,” he says, settling in, eyes dragging down and back up. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the mic in my face.”

You hand off your notes to the assistant and exhale slowly, lips curved. “Ah, yes. This is Cinderella after midnight. The magic’s gone now without the sparkling dresses, right?”

His head tilts. His gaze lowers—lingers. “I don’t think it was the dresses that did it for me.”

The words settle between you like heat. Your heart flinches in your chest, but you don’t let it show. You’ve trained for this.

“Good,” you manage, voice smooth. “Because I won’t fit in them anymore. Not after the two bribe baskets you sent me.”

That earns a laugh from him, low and genuine. “You liked the biscuits. Admit it.”

“They were manipulative I’m-sorry-I’m-standing-you-up-baskets,” you fire back. “That’s emotional warfare.”

He smirks, dragging a finger along the condensation dripping down his sweet tea bottle. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You lift your brows, trying to maintain composure. He’s too relaxed. Too grounded. Like the crew and the lights and the stakes of this moment aren’t even real to him.

His knee bumps yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I am sorry,” he says, and it’s not the first time. You’ve heard it over the phone, over text, wrapped in bribe baskets and late-night apologies. His voice is quieter now, lower, almost careful. “Really, really fucking sorry.”

You glance at him, then back at your drink, letting the silence hang for a second.

“Stop,” you say gently. “It’s okay. Shit happens. I know.”

His brows lift, just slightly.

He studies you like he’s not sure you mean it. Like he wants to dig through the words and make sure they’re not just a polite deflection.

You meet his eyes and give the smallest shrug. “You didn’t flake because you wanted to. You’ve been trying. I see that.”

Something in his shoulders softens. You can feel it.

“Still,” he murmurs, voice a little rough, “I don’t like letting you down.”

You tilt your head, resting your elbow on the table. “Then don’t do it again.”

He smiles, boyish and warm and your heart might be exploding in your chest. “Not planning on it.”

“So,” you say, elbow resting on the laminate surface, “this is where you grew up.”

“This is it,” he says with a little shrug. “Where I learned to ride a bike. Failed geometry. Kissed a girl behind a Taco Bell.”

You blink. “That’s romantic.”

“It was sweaty,” he grins. “But yeah.”

You glance around the space. The yellowed walls, the battered menu board, the cracked vinyl seats. It’s tragically charming in a way you couldn’t fake if you tried. The kind of place frozen in time.

“It’s weird,” you murmur. “You’re Drew Starkey, and you’re from here.”

He gives you a quieter smile this time, more grounded. “Nah. I’m still just Joseph Andrew. This place keeps me real.”

You arch a brow. “You mean it humbles you.”

“Exactly. That, and the fact that I’ve seen three of my high school teachers today. One of them winked at me. Not joking.”

You laugh, loud and involuntary, and he leans forward again, resting his chin in one hand, elbow on the table, just… watching you.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice lower now. Almost too sincere.

“At what?”

“Making me feel like this isn’t going to be filmed.”

You glance at the crew out of the corner of your eye, then back at him. “That’s because it’s not supposed to feel like an interview. It’s a date.”

Something shifts in his expression. Something honest flickers through.

“How’d you come up with this concept?” he asks, voice low and genuine, and just like that, he pivots. He always does this; asks you things like you’re the one worth watching.

You weren’t expecting the question, so you blink. Most people don’t ask. Most people just flirt or perform. But he listens like he actually wants the answer.

“I was twenty,” you say slowly. “Just graduated. All my friends had job offers lined up. I had a few too, but nothing that really stuck. I wanted to create something… fun. Something that felt like us sitting around a table talking nonsense, but with cameras. My initial idea was a podcast but that wasn’t very me and now with the explosion of podcasts and how it’s viewed, I’m glad I didn’t do it.”

He’s already nodding, listening like it’s a story he’s heard before and still wants to hear again.

He’s leaning forward now, like every word matters.

“I went on this awful first date, and that night my friends and I stayed up for hours talking about it. Debriefing. Laughing. Then we started asking who we would want to go on a date with if we could pick anyone. And I just thought, what if I could? My friends joked that I was better off creating a show about dating than going on another date.”

“So you did.”

“So I did,” you smile. “First guest was a friend of a friend. It snowballed from there.”

Drew leans back in his chair a little, something lazy and pleased settling over him. “I should send that bad date a thank you cheque. He’s the reason we met.”

You open your mouth, ready to say something. A joke, maybe but it catches. You hesitate instead.

He notices. His brows lift slightly, and that half-smile appears again, crooked and knowing. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. I just…”

He waits.

“It’s silly,” you say, “but I believe you meet who you’re meant to meet. Like, even if that date hadn’t been a disaster, if it had gone perfectly, if I was supposed to meet you eventually, I would have. Maybe not like this, sitting across from each other in a chicken shop in Hickory, but somehow.”

That gets him. His smile fades into something quieter. He watches you for a moment too long. Doesn’t blink. His fingers curl slightly where they rest on the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself, too.

“Okay, guys. We’re ready to film. Are we good?”

Henry’s voice cuts through the ambient clatter of the shop, a little louder than it needs to be. He stands behind one of the cameras, headset slightly askew, fingers hovering over the switchboard like a man ready to detonate something.

You glance toward him and nod, flashing two quick thumbs up. “We’re good.”

And when you turn back, Drew is still watching you.

And not in the passive, polite, camera-aware kind of way. He’s watching you like you’re a secret he’s dying to figure out. His eyes are locked on yours and the heat of it steals the air from your lungs. You look away before you start smiling like a teenager at prom.

Instead, you focus on the food in front of you. Something safe. Something greasy and familiar and not Drew Star key’s jawline.

You gesture toward the tray between you. “Do you actually like this stuff, or were you just trying to impress me with your Southern charm?”

He tears into a fry like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Oh no, I grew up on this,” he says around a grin. “This is comfort food.”

You reach for a chicken strip and take a slow, exaggerated bite, eyes narrowing as you chew. “I rate it… six out of ten.”

He gasps, hand pressed to his chest. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

There’s a beat.

You sip your drink, the straw catching awkwardly at first, and his eyes follow the movement. He watches your mouth with a look that’s far too thoughtful for something so innocent. It makes your skin prickle. You can feel him restraining himself—like whatever just passed through his mind definitely isn’t fit for YouTube.

You flash a grin to shake it off, your tone lifting. “So. What do you look for in a girl?”

He picks up a napkin and wipes his fingers slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself a second. “Someone who can give me shit. Keep me in check. Doesn’t care that I’m on Netflix.”

He glances up then, lips curled. “She’s gotta be smart. Funny. A little chaotic.”

You tilt your head. “Has excellent taste in chicken shops?”

“That too,” he nods, biting back a smile.

You lean in slightly. “And looks?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes don’t move from yours. “I mean… look at you.”

You blink. Your breath catches for half a second before you cover it with a laugh. “You’re laying it on thick, Starkey.”

“I’m trying to romance my date.” His smile turns boyish. “Is it not a date?”

You try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, but it wins. “No, it is a date.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

His voice is softer now—smokier. The kind of tone that vibrates a little in your chest. You don’t look over at the crew, but you know Gracie is behind the monitor silently losing her mind.

Drew leans in a little more, and suddenly there’s less air between you. You can smell the faintest trace of his cologne—clean, subtle, and a little dizzying. His arm rests on the table now, elbow bent, hand relaxed like he’s just waiting.

“This could go badly, you know,” he murmurs.

“How so?”

“We could end up liking each other.”

You pause, heart skipping—but you don’t let it show. You’re still playing your part. You’re still on camera. So you arch a brow instead, tilt your head with practiced ease.

“That is the point of a date.”

He laughs again, head thrown back slightly, and the sound is so rich, so real, you want to fold it into your hands and keep it. You’re not even sure you care that the camera is rolling anymore. You just want to hear it again.

“Okay, fine,” he says, sitting back an inch but his gaze doesn’t stray. “If this is a date, I can ask you questions too, right?”

The journalist in you wants to say no. That’s not how this works. You ask. He answers. You steer. He follows. But he’s not wrong. And this is a date. Sort of.

“Mm. Go on.”

He smiles. “Tell me your type.”

You make a show of pretending to think, fingers dancing along the edge of your cup.

“Hmm… Dirty blonde. Funny. A little cocky. Southern. Tall. Broad shoulders. Good hands. Blue eyes.”

His smile spreads slow and knowing, like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon. “You just described me.”

You hum, eyes flicking over him. “Did I?”

He leans forward again, closer than before. His voice drops just enough for only you to hear.

“What about the good hands part?”

You pause, savoring the tension. Then:

“Still under review.”

He breaks. Laughs, head ducking low, hand covering his mouth. When he looks up again, his eyes are brighter. Softer. Lit from somewhere deeper.

“Harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

“So,” you say, your voice dipping just slightly, intimate in the space between you, “you’ve had a couple of movies with love interests.”

“Mhm.” He hums it, already smiling like you said something you didn’t mean to say out loud. That kind of smile that sits somewhere behind his teeth and flickers in his eyes. You almost ask what he’s thinking, why he’s already grinning, but you don’t. You cling to the structure, the scaffolding of the interview like it’s keeping you upright.

“You did one with Marie Leighton, Ella Ross, Victoria Clarke…” You pause, watching the way he leans in without realizing it. “I have to ask though. Who’s the best kisser?”

He throws his head back with a groan that turns into a laugh, deep and full, the kind that pulls his whole chest forward. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. You know I’m friends with all those girls, right?”

You press your hand against your chest, mock-innocent. “Can’t a girl get to know her date?”

He goes quiet then. His smile softens, eyes shifting slightly. There’s something deeper there now. Something that tightens the air between you. His gaze finds yours and lingers. Long enough to catch in your throat.

“Kissing scenes,” he says slowly, “aren’t nearly as romantic as they look. You’ve gotta do it fifty times from ten different angles. And by the end of the night, you’re just sick of the smell of Baccarat Rouge or YSL Libre most girls wear.”

“Mm,” you say, sipping your drink with a little shrug. “I wear Celine Parade.” Just incase you want to make out some time.

It slips out too fast. Too easy.

His eyes glint. His smile goes crooked. “That is good to know.”

Your stomach flips. You clear your throat and point a finger across the table. “Okay. Answer the question. You’re not off the hook.”

He groans again, dramatic now, but there’s something quieter behind it too. He pauses, scratches his jaw with his thumb. “Victoria,” he says eventually. “Mostly because we didn’t have that many kissing scenes. So my lips weren’t completely destroyed by the end of the day.”

You snort. “You’re actually teaching me things. I didn’t know you could get sick of kissing.”

You pop a fry into your mouth. Just then, his eyes drop. Subtle, deliberate to your lips. Only for a second. But enough.

His voice is lower now, near a whisper. “Depends on the person.”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the way your smile wants to split you in half. You shift slightly in your chair, suddenly too aware of the heat in the room. The press of your thigh against the edge of the table. The way he keeps looking at you like he’s thinking about things he can’t say on camera.

“I read somewhere,” you begin, grasping for levity, “that Southern guys have great manners.”

He nods, lips quirking. “Mm. That’s true. If you forget to hold a door open in this town or skip saying ‘Thank you, ma’am’ to a cashier? Someone’s calling your parents. You’re getting a full lecture by dinnertime.”

“Is that how you want to raise your kids?”

His answer comes fast, like he’s already considered it. “Definitely. I want a couple things from them: Respect the people around you. Live and let live. Be a gentleman. Have good manners. And know how to work a grill.”

You laugh, caught off guard. “Work a grill?”

“That’s probably the most important one, actually.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “So do you have a grill at your place? Big backyard? Fairy lights strung up in the trees?”

“Come over and find out.”

You blink. “Are you asking me out on a second date?”

“Only if this date is going as well as I think it is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Your answer to the next question.”

He narrows his eyes, intrigued. “Hit me.”

You pause, let the silence stretch. Let him lean in a little closer, just enough to notice.

“Am I the prettiest girl you’ve ever been on a date with?”

There’s not a single beat of hesitation.

“Absolutely.”

He doesn’t say it to charm you. He says it like a fact. Like nothing could be more right.

You'll cut this.

Of course you will.

The way he looks at you when you’re not speaking. The tension under every glance. The breath that gets caught in your throat when his hand brushes the table near yours. The way he leans in just slightly like he wants to close the space between you with something neither of you can take back. It's too much. Too dramatic for a series meant to feel so light.

But some things will stay.

The laughter.

The softness behind his voice.

The look he gives you right before the cameras stop rolling. Like he’s about to say something real. Like he might say it off-camera.

Like this isn’t the end. Like he hopes it’s not even close.

THE END (i think)

He’d sent the text the night before. Right around the time you were bent over the hotel bathroom sink, trying not to cry between waves of nausea. A lovely memory, really.

You hadn’t answered until now.

The hospital room was still and dim, lit only by the faint blue-gray light of early morning bleeding through the window blinds. Everyone was asleep. Your assistant and Gracie curled on the too-small couch with a jacket thrown over her shoulders. Yves and Tommy were slumped in those plastic chairs, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. It was just shy of 6 AM. Oscar day. And instead of prepping at your overpriced suite ten minutes from the venue, you were here: in a paper gown, on a borrowed pillow, smelling faintly of antiseptic.

You sent your reply quietly, thumb hovering for a beat before tapping send.

The call came almost instantly.

You stared at the screen vibrating in your hand, frozen for a second, then scrambled to slide out of the bed, careful not to wake anyone. The sheets crinkled beneath you and the IV tugged slightly at your arm. You slipped into the hallway, your bare feet quiet against the linoleum.

The corridor was still. Eerily calm, like the entire building was holding its breath. You sank into one of the hard waiting chairs, pulled your knees up, and answered.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice hoarse and sleep-heavy.

There was a quiet rustle on the other end. The faint murmur of people in the background, the sound of a door clicking shut. Then it was quieter, more contained.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and a little rushed, like he’d moved to take the call the second he saw your message. “You’re in the hospital? Are you sick? Hurt?”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see it. “No, no. Just food poisoning. I had it bad last night.”

There was a pause, “That sounds serious.”

You turned your head, watching the empty hallway stretch out in front of you. “It’s not, really. Once I threw up a couple of times, I already felt better.”

“Still. Don’t downplay it,” he said, firmer this time. Not angry, but resolute. “If they’re keeping you overnight, it’s serious.”

“It’s just standard procedure,” you murmured.

“No,” he said. “Standard procedure is discharging someone once they’re fine. Keeping you means they thought something could still happen.”

You sat up a little straighter. His voice had shifted. There was tension there now, a low thread of frustration tucked behind the concern.

“Drew,” you said gently. “I had a stomach bug. That’s all. I’m on fluids. I’ll head back to the hotel in a few hours, sleep it off, and I’ll be back to full glam by 6.”

He went quiet. A breath. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry. I'm just…”

He trailed off and you filled in the silence. “Tired?”

He let out a quiet exhale, like your voice hit a nerve. “Yeah. Everything’s blurring a little. These events just start to stack on top of each other after a while.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see. “You’ve had a hell of a press tour. I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

“I love it,” he said quickly, like instinct. “It’s great, I—”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you cut in, soft but certain. “It’s when we pretend we’re not that we miss the signs. Like airport sushi smelling off. And then boom: hospital bed, no lashes, no coffee, just an IV drip and the lingering shame of cheap wasabi.”

He laughed, low and warm in your ear. And even through the hollow ache in your gut, it made you smile.

“I was just about to send you breakfast, too,” he says. “Real Southern stuff. Biscuits, eggs, the works.”

“That would’ve been cruel,” you mutter. “I can barely look at a saltine right now.”

He hums. “Next time I’ll text before I try to be thoughtful.”

“Next time I’ll accept,” you say. “Even if it kills me.”

There's a small pause.

“You shouldn’t joke about dying,” he murmurs.

“Okay, morbid. We’re not there yet.”

“Where’s there?”

You smile at the ceiling. “Where we say scary things without flirting after.”

He laughs, and the sound warms something in your chest. “Right. Got it. This is still flirting.”

“Very much so.”

Another quiet pause. His voice dips again.

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

“Just sleep.”

“Someone to hold your hair back?”

You let out a weak laugh. “I’ve already thrown up all the sins of my past life, I’m good.”

He chuckles. “Alright. But I’m checking in on you later.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay. But only if you send that biscuit basket anyway.”

“I knew it.”

“Don’t let me die without carbs.”

He sighs, but it sounds like a smile. “See you on the carpet?”

“See you on the carpet.”

You hang up, cheeks warm, nausea slightly forgotten. Even in a hospital gown, with smudged mascara and the sound of squeaky floors, somehow, talking to him still feels like the best part of your morning.

What's even more miraculous? You actually make it to that carpet.

You’re in the middle of a laugh with one of the leads from Drew’s nominated film when you feel it again; that familiar pause in the universe, like time folding in on itself.

The actor catches it too. His eyes flick upward and he’s smiling behind you before something has even had the chance to happen. “Oh, here we go,” he says under his breath, grinning as Drew Starkey walks straight toward the both of you. Confident. Sharp. And far too comfortable for someone who isn’t technically scheduled for your slot.

Drew barely glances at the camera, arm slung around his your shoulder like it belongs there, and he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Are you flirting with my date?” he asks his costar.

You don’t even get a word out before the other actor scoffs. “Mate, I was talking about cinematography.”

Drew’s smile curves slow. “That’s how it starts.”

You shake your head, amused, playing along like it’s nothing. “Date? That’s news to me.”

Drew turns to you with a tilt of his head. “Is it?”

You lift your brow, lips quirking. “You’ve stood me up twice now.”

That makes him pause. His smile doesn’t drop entirely, but something shifts in his expression—like a record skipping. Like there’s a part of him that hates that it’s true.

He looks at you, really looks, and you feel it. That weight behind the joke. That something-you-can’t-say pressure sitting right there beneath his charm.

“I know,” he says quietly. “You know I’m trying to make it work.”

And you do. You really do. You know there are teams, schedules, PR demands and tiny, invisible contracts governing everything. But still.

You keep your tone light. “I’m just teasing. I’m sure our date will happen very soon.”

His eyes don’t leave yours for a long beat. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It will.”

There’s a flicker in his jaw, something unspoken that nearly makes your stomach twist.

You swat lightly at Drew’s chest, trying not to smile so hard your cheekbones hurt. “Go win something. You’re interrupting.”

“Can’t help myself,” he says. “You look…” He stops, eyes drifting down your figure with a not-so-subtle pause before he clears his throat. “Incredible.”

You open your mouth to tease him, but his costar beats you to it.

“Someone’s feeling rather flirty,” they grin, smacking Drew’s shoulder. Drew scoffs, biting back a laugh as he shifts his weight.

“Don’t think no one sees you foaming at the mouth, man,” he says, nodding toward them. “I’ve just got the balls to say it.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks still warm. “Go. You’re making me look unprofessional.”

But Drew doesn’t move just yet. Instead, he leans in slightly, his tone dropping, just loud enough for you to hear and you instinctively bring your mic down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not looking at your face right away, like asking it out loud might make it too obvious. “You… good now?”

You meet his eyes then. That softness is back. That look he gives you like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway. It’s subtle. No one else would even register the shift. But you feel it. Right there in your chest.

You nod, a small, grateful smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah. I’m good.”

His eyes flicker across your face once more, checking. Quietly satisfied, he nods back, like now he can leave.

“Be nice to her,” he tells his friend.

“I was being nice,” the guy mutters, still amused.

“She’s got standards,” Drew calls over his shoulder. “Don’t mess it up.”

You don’t turn to watch Drew leave. You don’t need to.

You can feel him still looking.

When you focus back on your interviewee, the man is staring at you with that grin again. That knowing grin.

“You good?” he asks, teasing.

“I’m great,” you say quickly. “Back to you. Tell me about the final scene. You broke me.”

And just like that, you’re back on track.

But your heart’s still beating a little too fast.

The Met carpet is chaos disguised as glamour. The event handlers are always a bit too rough when moving people up the stairs, it's always loud and fast-paced and you have to be ready for anything at any given moment. Somewhere between the flashbulbs and the screaming fans, there’s you; balancing charm, wit, and five-inch heels that may or may not be slowly ending your life. But none of that matters right now. Not when he steps into frame.

Drew Starkey. In black-on-black tailoring that hugs his shoulders like it was sewn onto him in the dark. His hair’s a little undone, his walk a little lazy, and the second he sees you, it happens again.

He stares. And not in a regular way. He really stares. Watches you, up and down with a grin on his face that feels like it says; We meet again?

You smile, the camera catching just enough teeth to make it look effortless. “Well, well. Look who managed to clean up again.”

He grins, slower this time. His eyes trace over you with that infuriating kind of calm, like he’s studying something meant only for him. “Do you always look like this, or is it just when I’m around?”

You tilt your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would,” he says, without missing a beat.

You pretend not to hear that. Your expression doesn’t shift, but something in your stomach does. You gesture to the mark on the carpet. “Step into the light for me.”

He does. Effortlessly. Like he was born in it. But his gaze doesn’t waver. He stays looking at you like he forgot there are cameras, producers, and an entire internet waiting for content. Like it’s just the two of you.

You try to steady yourself, even as you ask, “Tell me a little about what you’re wearing tonight?”

“I’m wearing...” he begins, voice low. His eyes are still locked on yours for a second longer before they drop slowly, deliberately, sweeping down the line of your body like gravity has a hold on him.

You’re live. You know you’re live. You’re aware of every second that passes. Every camera lens pointed toward you. Every production assistant whispering behind their clipboards. Every viewer watching from home.

You’re just not sure he knows.

You’re just not sure he knows. Or worse, he knows exactly what he’s doing. And doesn’t care.

“Eyes up,” you say, forcing a smile to veil the heat creeping into your skin. “Focus.”

“I am focused.” His voice doesn’t waver. He’s still looking at you.

“On the camera,” you clarify, raising a brow.

He smiles, that slow, lazy grin that feels dangerous when paired with the look in his eyes. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

"I’ll be whatever you want me to be."

You raise a brow, surprised he said it out loud, and he just shrugs a little, amused with himself like he’s already gotten away with something.

“Did you just come out of the womb a flirt?” you ask, partly to keep the banter going and partly to collect yourself, to put some distance between the heat of his gaze and your wildly unprofessional response to it.

He shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “This is just for you.”

There’s a beat. A crackle of electricity just under the surface.

You inhale through your nose and shift your weight, grounding yourself again. The laugh that bubbles up gets caught in your throat. You tilt the mic a little closer to your chest, the movement more of a distraction than anything else.

“Are you sure?” you ask now, but it’s not for the audience, not even for the content. This is just for you. A quiet attempt to untangle the threads. To figure out if this whole flirty routine is calculated. Something his publicist cooked up after realizing you two had good on-camera chemistry. Or if this is real. Him, standing there, saying things he doesn’t have to say, looking at you like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else.

You’ve worked this job long enough to know how much of Hollywood is staged. Glamorous, polished, controlled. What you think is real is often the exact opposite. Carefully curated, rehearsed, and micromanaged for maximum effect.

He watches you. There’s a flicker in his expression, something unspoken but not subtle.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks with a grin, light but not dismissive. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, but wants to hear you say it anyway.

You purse your lips to stop from smiling and shake your head, half-laughing now, flustered in spite of yourself. “We’re done talking about this. We’re talking about this suit now, which is absolutely gorgeous. You look great in blue.”

But he cuts in, voice still smooth. “Hold on, I—”

You shake your head, waving him off, the corners of your mouth betraying you again. “Nope. I have bullet points to get through.”

He leans in slightly, “Wouldn’t want to fuck up the bullet points,” he murmurs, chuckling under his breath.

You give him a sharp look despite the smile on your face. “Language.”

“Sorry,” he says, eyes glinting. Then, turning briefly to the camera, he repeats the apology, a bit more performative this time, but still charming. “Sorry.”

Your media training kicks in, smooth as silk before he can veer you off track again. You lift your chin. “Who are you wearing?”

“Loewe dressed me tonight,” he answers, the rhythm of his voice a little easier now. “Wanted me to look like I belong here.”

You hum, letting your eyes drop to the lapels, the tailoring, the navy fabric that somehow makes his shoulders look broader than ever. “Well. Tell Jonathan he succeeded. You look expensive.”

He leans a fraction closer, just enough to narrow the space between you. His voice dips. “You’d be the expert.”

You tap your mic once. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says. His eyes are on you again. They haven’t really left, but now they’re softer. Sincere.

And maybe you imagined it, but his fingers twitch slightly where his hand rests against his thigh, like they’re aching to reach out. He doesn’t. Not quite.

You try to keep your composure, to stay in the frame of the job, but it’s hard. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing something he wasn’t prepared for.

His gaze drops again, but not far. Not greedy. Just enough to catch the sheen of your lip gloss when the light hits it. It lingers there, caught in the space between curiosity and something else entirely.

You don’t mention it.

“Alright,” you say, angling the mic ever so slightly toward him, voice steady despite the heat rising to your face. “First thing you’re doing once you get inside?”

“Find the exhibit,” he says, to your surprise. “There’s a suit I want to see.”

You raise your brows, fighting the tug of a smile. “I think you forgot how an interview works, Starkey. I ask, you answer.”

He tilts his head slightly, one brow lifting, all amused arrogance. “Is that the rule?”

“That’s the rule.”

There’s a second of silence between you. The kind that stretches without feeling awkward. Then he says it, soft and low, the edges of the words just a little rough like velvet against skin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You blink. The air shifts. Somewhere behind the camera, Gracie let out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like oh, fuck me.

Your heart stutters. Just once. You recover quickly. “You’re trouble.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“So,” you continue, trying to stay professional. “What’s your Met hot take?”

He thinks for a second. “Too many people pretending they like caviar.”

You laugh—loud and unfiltered. “That’s the one.”

Your camera guy gives you a subtle throat-cutting motion. You hold up a single finger like one more minute. Drew notices and barely reacts. He just keeps watching you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“I’ll see you in there?” he asks.

“Only if you’re not causing too much trouble.”

He starts walking backward again with both hands held up like okay okay. “I’ll behave.”

You laugh under your breath. “Doubtful.”

He’s halfway gone when you call after him, just loud enough for the mic to still catch it. “Hey, Starkey!”

He stops, turns. That crooked smile is back in an instant. “Yeah?”

“You know what would really redeem you?”

“What’s that?”

You tilt your head, a little smug now. “A Chicken Shop Date.”

His face lights up. Eyes crinkling, grin slow and full of interest. “Are you asking?”

You give a half-shrug, teasing. “I’m floating the idea.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Float it a little closer. I’ll be there.”

You raise your mic like you’re ending the segment, but your smile says otherwise. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep now.”

Drew points at you one last time, backing away, laughing now. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And he’s gone.

But the camera’s still rolling. And you’re still standing there, smiling like maybe you just started something you can’t quite stop.

There’s something about red carpets that makes people forget how to stand. They either fidget too much or freeze entirely. You’ve seen grown men with IMDB pages longer than your grocery list spiral because you asked them about socks.

But tonight, you feel good.

The JPG dress hugs your frame like it was tailored in a past life. Red beads and soft mesh, all attitude and elegance, and you’re wearing it like armor dipped in perfume. The heels are somewhat manageable, your liner hasn’t smudged, and you’ve hit that sweet spot between professional and on a roll. The lights are bright, the people are buzzing, and you’re halfway through your cue cards when it happens.

It’s subtle at first. Like the air itself rearranges. A quiet shift that you don’t even register until your skin prickles and the energy around you starts to pull inward.

Your brain kicks into gear, running through the semi-intensive research you did on every major name set to appear tonight.

Drew Starkey. Thirty-one. Southern kid who made it in Hollywood. Starring in five films slated for 2026, all directed by the best in the business. He's at the peak of his career. And now he’s here. In front of you. Taller than you expected. Sharper in real life. Completely, devastatingly gorgeous.

Red carpets are always chaotic. Photographers yelling for attention, lenses clicking like firecrackers. Publicists pacing, phones to their ears. Assistants crouched at the edge of the frame, smoothing creases, fixing collars. It’s loud and fast and nothing about it feels natural. But Drew? He moves through the chaos with quiet confidence, Prada suit sharp, grin easy. There’s a slight glint in his eyes, like he knows how he looks but isn’t obnoxious about it. He walks like he’s never rushed a day in his life. And the second he steps into your light, he looks at you like you could split him an ocean or move mountains.

“Hello,” you call out, keeping your tone light.

“Hey,” he replies. His voice is easy, slow. “Stand on the cross?”

You nod. “Right there is perfect, thank you so much.” You take him in, head to toe, and offer a sly smile. “You look great. Is it a Prada suit?”

“It is a Prada suit,” His fingers trace the edge of the fabric almost absentmindedly.“They were kind enough to loan it to me.”

“Dangerous,” you hum. “You better not drink too much tonight. Too much fun causes accidents.”

He chuckles, eyes still on you. “I’m pretty set on keeping the arm and leg it’d cost me, so don’t worry.”

You laugh softly. “Good. I’d hate to see you sold off for a dry cleaning bill.”

That gets a real smile. One of those ones that sticks for a second too long. The camera guy behind you shifts his stance, sensing something electric.

You tilt the mic toward him, steadying your hand though your pulse has picked up ever so slightly. "Alright," you say, glancing up at him with a flicker of amusement, "if you could choose your Man of the Year, who would it be?"

Drew shifts his weight, hands sliding into the pockets of his tailored Prada trousers as he gives a low chuckle. His mouth curves slowly, like he already knows you’ll like the answer.

"I’m gonna have to go very basic, stereotypical answer here and say my dad."

You raise your brows, already smiling as the crowd behind you shifts, the sound of heels clicking and camera shutters ticking filling the edges of your awareness. "Dad takes it?" you tease, tilting your head just a little.

His grin deepens. "Dad takes it."

You watch the way his mouth moves around the words. There’s something charming in how confidently he says it; like he’s proud of that answer, not just using it to be cute. His eyes are locked on yours, expression so open you feel it in the pit of your stomach.

"That’s sweet," you say, letting the smile linger. "I hope he knows you feel that way."

"Oh, he’s definitely watching."

"Right now?"

He leans in a fraction, and it’s so slight that it’s almost imperceptible, but you feel it anyway. Like the gravity of him pulls at you. “Oh yeah. For sure.”

You look at the lens and wave, small and composed, the edge of your wrist grazing the mic you’re holding. “Hi Drew’s dad.”

There’s a laugh somewhere off camera, probably Yves, but it fades when Drew leans into frame beside you, closer than before. His shoulder brushes yours, the scent of something earthy and expensive trailing with him. His voice is low, playful.

“Sup, Dad?”

You glance back at him. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

There’s a beat where everything stalls. The rustle of fabric, the shouts from photographers, the constant shuffle of people, even the sounds from your own crew. Gone. Like the carpet fell silent just for the two of you.

You blink, unsure if it’s nerves or something else, but when your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Not with the polite detachment of a celebrity doing press, not even with the amused affection he showed a second ago.

He’s really looking at you.

Like he’s memorizing. Reading. Curious. Like you’re not supposed to be real and yet here you are, standing right in front of him, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide with that telltale glint of awareness. You suddenly feel your breath catch, just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you notice. You feel it in your chest. You’re hyperaware of the way your hand is curled around the mic, the way your left knee shifts under the pressure of your own balance, the tiny tug of your dress.

“Are you going to the after?” you ask, voice light but curious.

Drew’s head tilts slightly as he looks at you. There’s a delay, like he’s considering more than just the party. “I might,” he says. “Not sure. Are you?”

You sigh, not performative, not for the cameras, just a little tired. The kind of tired that comes from heels worn too long and adrenaline that’s starting to crash. “I’m honestly kinda beat. These shoes are killing me.”

He follows your eyes as they flick down to your feet. His gaze stays there for a beat longer than necessary. Then slowly, almost deliberately, it drifts upward. Over your legs, the curve of your hips, the line of your dress. When his eyes reach yours again, they’re a little darker.

“Shame,” he says. His voice is warm now, honey-slow and shameless. “Cause they make your legs look great.”

You let out a breathy gasp, the kind that turns into a laugh before it’s even finished. Your hand flies to your chest in mock offense. “Drew,” you say, trying to sound scandalized but utterly failing. “I’m appalled by your straightforwardness.”

He lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug, the corner of his mouth curled in that lazy grin that’s undoubtedly already launched ten thousand GIFs. “I may or may not be a little tipsy already.”

A boom mic dips into your peripheral vision and you instinctively shift closer to him, the tiniest step in your heels, just enough to read as a whisper between two people who don’t want the rest of the world to hear.

You glance behind the camera where your handler is motioning with subtle urgency. A quick circle of his hand. Ten seconds.

You nod at her, then glance back at him. “That explains the charm,” you tease. “It’s spiked.”

His smile deepens, slower now. “Just this once.”

You flash him a parting smile, softer than the ones you’ve given tonight. Real. “Please have so much fun tonight. Maybe I’ll see you in there.”

His mouth curves again, crooked and contemplative. “Maybe you will.”

But he doesn’t move.

He stays there, not saying anything, just looking at you. His gaze drifts once more, slow and hungry and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or you, or maybe both. The way your dress clings in the light. The way your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to smile again. The way your fingers fidget with the edge of your mic, like touching something keeps you grounded.

Your heart ticks a little faster.

Someone calls his name from behind the camera, but he doesn’t respond right away. Eventually, he gives a small nod to no one in particular, then steps back.

You take a breath as he turns, the warmth of him still lingering in the air where he stood.

Your next guest is already stepping into frame. You smile, professional and poised, asking the first question on autopilot. But your hand grazes the curve of your dress again, like you’re smoothing away the imprint he left.

And a small, ridiculous part of you? It’s tucked somewhere in the inside pocket of his Prada jacket, waiting to be pulled out when he’s alone again.

"Maddy—"

"No! Go fuck yourself, Rafe!" Maddy’s voice cuts through the quiet apartment, sharp and trembling with fury, as she yanks her hair into a messy bun, the elastic snapping into place with a force that mirrors her frustration.

"I got caught up, Mads, I—"

"Go. Fuck. Yourself." She spits each word with deliberate clarity, her voice trembling as she strips out of her outfit, the fabric whispering against her skin as it falls to the floor. Her hands grab the cool silk of her blue satin nightgown, and she slips it on with quick, jerky movements. The sheen of the material glides over her flushed skin, but it offers no comfort.

On the other side of the door, his voice softens, persistent yet pleading. "C'mon, Maddy. Let me make it up to you."

She pauses, the sound of his begging igniting a bitter satisfaction that battles with the sting of her humiliation. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to sit there, waiting for someone who doesn’t fucking show? To feel everyone’s eyes on you, knowing they’re thinking, ‘Poor girl, stood up again, what a loser?’" Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. She doesn’t want to cry. Not for him. Not again.

She reaches for her matching satin robe, the cool material slipping over her shoulders as she ties it tightly around her waist. The motion steadies her enough to walk to the bathroom. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, each step measured, a small effort to hold herself together.

"I got held up, baby. I should’ve texted, but I lost track of time—"

"And I’m just the last fucking thing on your mind, right?" She whirls toward the door, her voice rising with every word. "The absolute bottom of the list of all the important things Rafe Cameron has to deal with in a day! I know I’m the idiot in this situation, okay? I know that I’m the fool who keeps believing you’ll show up, and it’s on me! So, please, do me the courtesy of letting me live with my regret and embarrassment in peace! Can you at least do that?"

Her chest heaves as the words echo through the room, but this time, there’s no response. Just silence.

The quiet cuts deeper than any retort, and Maddy stands frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. He’s gone. The thought twists her stomach, disbelief settling in as her tears finally spill over.

She presses her lips together and turns toward the bathroom, determined to distract herself. She flips on the light and leans over the sink, the cool porcelain grounding her as she pumps cleanser into her hands. The repetitive motion of washing her face is all that keeps the anger from bubbling into a full breakdown. The water runs cool, trickling down her cheeks and mixing with the tears she refuses to acknowledge.

When her skin is clean, her makeup wiped away, she stares at her reflection, her red-rimmed eyes and the faint quiver of her lower lip betraying the storm inside her. Shaking her head, she turns off the faucet and pats her face dry with a towel.

She was halfway to her room, the soft padding of her bare feet muffled by the carpet, when the jingle of keys at the front door made her pause. Turning her head, she fully expected Cassie to walk in, bags in hand and an excuse ready. Instead, Cassie stumbled inside with Rafe right behind her, his presence casting a heavy shadow over the entryway.  

“What the fuck, Cassie?” Maddy’s voice exploded into the quiet apartment, the words sharp and laced with betrayal. Cassie flinched, startled by the sudden outburst, her eyes widening as she tried to make sense of the hostility.  

“What…?” Cassie stammered, confusion evident on her face as she glanced between her sister and Rafe.  

But Maddy wasn’t looking at her anymore. Her gaze had locked onto Rafe, his blue eyes meeting hers with an expression that almost looked sincere. Almost. His face carried an apology, but to Maddy, it felt hollow, too little, too late.  

“What happened? Are you…” Cassie began, her voice faltering when she caught the tension between them. Then, recognition dawned, her expression shifting to one of understanding as she let out a quiet, “Ohhh…”  

“Maddy—” Rafe stepped forward, his tone low and careful, but Maddy’s fury ignited. Her hand shot to the heel she’d left discarded earlier, her fingers curling around it.  

Without a second thought, she hurled the shoe directly at him. It sailed through the air, a blur of glittery vengeance, but Rafe dodged it with infuriating ease.  

“Get out!” Maddy’s voice cracked, her hands trembling with restraint. She didn’t trust herself to go near him—she knew she’d crumble if she did.  

“Will you just—”  

Before he could finish, she snatched up the second heel, her aim as fierce as her glare. This time, Rafe was ready, catching it mid-air with a frustratingly calm reflex. Undeterred, Maddy spun on her heel and bolted toward her room, her heart pounding as she tried to slam the door shut behind her.  

Rafe was quicker. His foot wedged into the doorway just before it clicked shut, and with one firm push, he was inside.  

“Go away! I don’t want you here!” Maddy shoved at his chest, her palms hitting the firm wall of muscle, but he didn’t budge.  

“I’ll call the police!” she threatened, her voice rising in desperation. “Cassie, call the police!”  

Rafe turned his head to look at Cassie, who stood frozen in the hallway, torn between loyalty and fear. “I know where your sister lives,” he warned, his tone low and deliberate.  

“You wouldn’t!” Cassie gasped, her face pale.  

“He wouldn’t hurt Lexi,” Maddy scoffed, though her voice wavered as she tried to wriggle free from Rafe’s grasp.  

“Wanna find out?” he shot back, his grip tightening as he lifted her off the ground with infuriating ease.  

Cassie hesitated, her wide eyes darting between them. Finally, she whispered, “He scares me more than you do. I’m so sorry. I love you!” And with that, she darted out of sight.  

“Cassie, I hate you!” Maddy yelled after her, her fists pounding weakly against Rafe’s chest as he carried her back into the room.  

When the door clicked shut behind them, Maddy huffed, crossing her arms tightly as she glared at him. “Now what? Gonna apologize again? Apology not accepted.”  

He exhaled heavily, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, careful like he was handling a wild animal. “You aren’t the last thing on my mind,” he said gently. “You matter to me, Maddy. You know that. You have to know that.”  

Her lips parted to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting her off. “I fucked up, okay? I should’ve texted. I lost track of time, and the moment I realized, I dropped everything and raced across town to get to you.” His voice was quiet, steady, each word aimed at breaking down her defenses.  

“Would I be here, fighting like this, if I wanted to stand you up? If I didn't care?” he murmured, stepping closer, his gaze locking onto hers.  

She crossed her arms tighter, her chin lifting in defiance, but the crack in her armor was showing. Rafe saw it. He always did.  

Gently, he reached out, tugging her arms apart. His fingers were warm, firm but unthreatening, as he placed the softest kiss on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips brushing her skin like a feather.  

Maddy stood frozen, her breath catching as he kissed her again, this time along her arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her skin, his voice like a low hum that sent shivers down her spine.  

Another kiss followed, this one trailing to her arm, then lower, the silk of her robe slipping away under his hands as he moved with deliberate care.

“Rafe,” Maddy breathed, her resolve faltering as his lips found her bare thighs.

He sank to his knees before her, hands gliding over her skin, reverent and firm. His touch was practiced, intimate, the way his fingers hooked under the hem of her robe and pushed it up, exposing her.

Her breath hitched as he lifted one of her legs, draping it over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before he disappeared between her thighs.

The first flick of his tongue stole a gasp from her lips, her head falling back as pleasure overtook her. Rafe was relentless, skilled in a way that made her body betray her every time. He knew every sensitive spot, every way to drive her past the brink of sanity.

His tongue slowly licks up her slit and he stays buried there lapping along her hole and soft folds—for way too long if you're asking Maddy— he does it because he knows she's slowly losing it, wants to push her, to get her to the point where she's rutting against his mouth aimlessly seeking, begging for release.

It's only been a couple of seconds and Maddy can already feel just how soaking wet she is, just how much slick she's getting all over Rafe's face and he doesn't even seem to mind, he's mouthing and licking at her cunt and the pleasure is turning her into a trembling, moaning mess. "R-Rafe..!" Maddy frustratingly pushes her pussy against his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as her body trembled beneath his relentless attention. He never rushed, never faltered.

When his tongue makes first contact with her clit, Maddy's sure she's going to come. The pleasure is beyond measurable and she feels her legs wobble but Rafe reaches out just in time to steady her. "S' too much!" she's whining, tears in her eyes and yet she's pushing her cunt against his mouth.

Rafe pays her no mind—he never really does when he's eating her out. It always started as something for her but ended as something he completely lost himself in. It was an addiction for him, a terrible one that would have her overstimulated and forced to cum too many times.

His tongue laps her clit, flicking the little nub and Maddy feels delirious, can't breathe because the pleasure is suffocating her. "God, fuck..d-don't stop..please!" Maddy whines so loud, she knows Cassie can hear her. She can't find it in her to care. "Rafe!" she cries again as her robe slips off her shoulders and to the floor.

Rafe's tongue darts out again, pushing against her hole and teasing it before he seems to pity how Maddy can barely stand anymore. Her legs are trembling, she's entirely out of breath, in a daze and terribly close to cumming.

He pushed her higher, further, until the only sounds in the room were her gasping breaths and the soft moans she couldn’t suppress.

He wouldn’t stop—not until she was a trembling mess, completely undone. And even as she clung to him, her body arching and pleading for mercy, she knew the truth. No one else could ever make her feel this way. No one ever had.

No one ever would.

Maddy feels that pit in her guts, feels the familiar heat pooling her and she's rutting her pussy against Rafe's lips, letting out these fucked-out moans. "Gonna c-cum..I-I..mm..! F—" Maddy's whines were interrupted by her own sharp gasp as her vision went blurry with tears, her back arches and her sweet cum mixed with slick come gushing out and dripping down her legs.

Maddy's ragged breaths fill the room, her chest rising and falling as she tries to steady herself. Rafe moves with a deliberate ease, lowering her trembling leg back to the ground with care. In one fluid motion, he rises to his feet, his strong hands sliding around her waist to steady her. Her body sways slightly, weak and unsteady, and he tightens his grip, holding her upright before she can crumple to her knees.

“You good?” His voice is low, rough around the edges but laced with concern. He’s solid and unwavering as she leans into him.

She nods slowly, her head lolling slightly as if the motion takes more effort than it should. Her mind is still swimming, every thought hazy, her body humming with lingering electricity. “Shower...” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as her arms instinctively loop around his neck, seeking the closeness she couldn’t seem to let go of.  

Rafe doesn’t hesitate. He scoops her up effortlessly, one arm supporting her back while the other hooks beneath her knees, cradling her against him like she weighs nothing at all. “Shower?” he repeats, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through her. “Don’t think we’re gonna do much showering if I get in there with you.” The words are teasing, but there’s a heat behind them, a promise that makes her pulse quicken despite her exhaustion.

"I hate this," Maddy announced with a defiant flair, tossing her book onto the floor beside where she sat cross-legged. The thud echoed her frustration.  

"Like, being alive? Because same," BB deadpanned, not even looking up from where she was scrolling on her phone.  

Maddy’s eyes flicked to her in mild disbelief. “No, BB. Do you need help?” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking or genuinely not alright.  

BB shrugged nonchalantly. “I see someone. We eat Slim Jims together.”  

Maddy blinked, then glanced at Kat, silently questioning whether she was imagining this bizarre conversation. Kat gave a subtle shake of her head, confirming it was, in fact, real.  

“I’m sick of this,” Maddy groaned, leaning back on her hands. “Am I supposed to memorize every little thing I highlight? Because that’s not really working for me.”  

Cassie leaned over, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder as she glanced at Maddy’s scattered notes. “Are you even reviewing it properly?” she asked, her tone tinged with mild reproach.  

Maddy whipped her head around to glare at her. “I can’t. You broke my lucky highlighter.”  

Cassie’s lips twitched in amusement, clearly unimpressed. “It wasn’t lucky just because it was a pretty highlighter, Maddy.”  

Maddy opened her mouth, ready to argue, when her phone buzzed from where it rested between her thighs. She glanced down at the screen, where ‘Dickhead’ flashed in bold letters.  

Her fingers hovered over the phone as she hesitated, weighing her options.

With a sigh, Maddy reluctantly swiped to accept the call and pressed her phone to her ear. “I could’ve sworn I blocked your number,” she mused, feigning confusion. The smirk in her voice was deliberate, and she could practically hear him grinning on the other end.  

“I could’ve sworn going to university meant you’d at least be smart enough to figure out where the block button is located. Guess we were both wrong, huh?”  

Maddy rolled her eyes, leaning back against her bed, knees tucked up to her chest. “You should count yourself lucky I haven’t figured it out yet.”  

“Yeah, I should,” he replied, and for a brief moment, she thought he sounded almost sincere.  

“I’m outside. Let’s go for a drive,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  

“How do you even know I’m not out?” she challenged, even as she got to her feet, heading toward her closet.  

There was a brief muffled noise on the line, the sound of him shifting, before his voice came back, clear and slightly smug. “Like you’d go out after having class from eight to eight.”  

She paused, pulling out a top and tilting her head at his tone. “How do you even know I had class from eight to eight?”  

“You have this really bad habit called complaining,” he shot back with a dry laugh. “And you do it 24/7. You’ve ranted about this particular schedule so many times it’s burned into my brain.”  

“Hm,” she murmured, unable to argue because, well, he wasn’t wrong.  

“Anyway,” he said, voice softening slightly, “come down.”  

Maddy pulled a pair of jeans from her closet and tossed them onto the bed with a huff. “Am I your dog now? Should I bark for you too?” she retorted.  

His laugh came quick, deep, and unapologetically amused. “Not necessary. Though you can always get on your knees if you’re feeling generous—you’ve always looked your best down there.”  

She froze for half a second, glaring at her outfit choices as her jaw tightened. “Fuck you,” she snapped, and she was seconds away from ending the call.  

“I would if you’d come down,” he said smoothly, the casual arrogance in his voice stirring something she refused to acknowledge.  

“Pass. Ask someone else,” she replied coldly, though she knew she wasn’t convincing anyone.  

“Christ, relax,” he said quickly, as though sensing she was about to hang up. His voice softened into something almost pleading. “Mad, please, come downstairs. Just drive around with me.”  

Maddy sighed, dragging out an exaggerated “uhhh's” and “mmm's” for effect, but they both knew the truth. She was already pulling on her clothes.

Her friends protested, of course. It was practically tradition at this point—they didn’t approve of the guy who managed to drive Maddy insane six out of seven days a week. But lately, it was becoming painfully clear to them that their objections were falling on deaf ears. The more they tried to stop her, the more Maddy seemed determined to keep seeing him.  

“It’s just a ride, Kat,” Maddy repeated for what felt like the third time, shimmying into the bejeweled denim skirt she’d picked out.  

“Is it just a ride?” Kat shot back, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe. “Because I think this is your third ride this week. That’s a lot of rides for someone who isn’t your boyfriend.”  

Maddy scrunched her nose at the comment, twisting to check the fit of her skirt in the mirror. She adjusted her crop top, pulling it into place before casually replying, “Who said I even want a boyfriend?” Her voice was light, but there was something unspoken beneath it—something her friends had noticed but never brought up.  

“Maybe you don’t want a boyfriend,” Cassie chimed in from her spot on the bed, barely looking up from her notebook as she copied down notes. “But you definitely want Rafe.”  

The quiet, knowing way Cassie said his name made Maddy pause for half a second. She tugged at her belly button piercing, making sure it sat just right before snapping back with her usual deflection. “Yeah, I want him to f—” Her words cut off abruptly as her phone started ringing.  

“God, he’s so impatient,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She took a final look at her reflection, smoothing a hand over her sleek ponytail to ensure it was perfectly in place, then grabbed her phone and made her way to the door.  

“See you tomorrow! I’ll be in class, Kat. Don’t worry!” Maddy called over her shoulder, blowing a dramatic kiss as she stepped out.  

“Don’t encourage her,” Kat mumbled to Cassie, her look of exasperation following Maddy until the door clicked shut.  

Maddy answered the call just as the elevator doors slid open. “I’m in the elevator,” she said casually.  

“You were in the elevator ten minutes ago, Mad,” came his low, familiar drawl.  

She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Mmm, I lied. But I promise, I’m in the elevator now.” The doors opened to the ground floor as if on cue, and she stepped out into the lobby, phone pressed to her ear.  

“Good, because I’m about to drive off,” he murmured, and Maddy could hear the faint hum of his car engine through the phone.  

“See? Told you,” she said, her voice tinged with quiet amusement as she spotted his car parked across the street. The sleek black vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its windows tinted so dark it was hard to tell if anyone was inside.

Without hesitation, she crossed the street, the faintest flicker of anticipation settling in her chest.

She hangs up, glancing both ways before crossing the street. Her gaze settles on the familiar black Jaguar F-Type parked under the dim glow of the streetlights. The car looks as pristine as always, a reflection of its owner. Sliding into the passenger seat, she barely has time to close the door before something shiny in the cupholder catches her eye.  

“I’ve been looking for this!” Maddy gasps, reaching for her Victoria’s Secret lip gloss like it’s a lost treasure. She unscrews it with practiced ease as Rafe starts backing out of the parking spot, the low purr of the engine filling the silence. “None of your other bitches have been touching it, I hope?” she adds, her tone laced with faux sweetness as she waves the applicator near her lips.  

“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so,” Rafe replies, his voice casual and teasing, though the faintest curve of amusement tugs at his lips.  

Maddy narrows her eyes at him, feigning offense before crossing her arms and staring at the road. Her pout is met with a quiet chuckle as Rafe reaches for something, placing it on her lap with an air of indifference.  

Her gaze drops to the small white box, perfectly wrapped with a delicate bow. Her irritation melts in an instant, replaced by the spark of excitement that always accompanies unexpected gifts. “For me?” she asks, her smile lighting up the dim interior of the car. “My birthday isn’t for another couple of months.”  

“They’ll look good on you,” Rafe says, his tone as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.  

With nimble fingers, Maddy undoes the bow and lifts the lid. Her breath catches when she sees what’s inside—a pair of Dior earrings, elegantly nestled in the box. But they’re not just any earrings; they’re the exact pair she’d admired through a boutique window just a few days ago with him.

“How did you even know I wanted these?” she exclaims, her voice filled with disbelief and delight as she gently lifts one of the earrings to examine it.  

“Just happened to be paying attention,” he says with a shrug, his tone betraying no effort, though the way his fingers tighten around the steering wheel says otherwise.  

Maddy giggles, her joy spilling over as she turns to him, clutching the box. “Thank you!” she beams, leaning over the console to plant a flurry of kisses on his cheek.  

He allows it for a moment, his usual stoic expression softening just enough for her to catch the faintest smile ghosting across his face. But just as quickly, he’s composed again, eyes firmly on the road.  

“C’mon, baby. I’m driving,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost scolding, though his tone holds no real weight.  

Maddy doesn’t care. She presses her lips to his, her hand resting on his cheek to keep him from pulling away. It’s playful at first, her kisses light and teasing as she revels in the warmth of his skin. But then her movements slow, her lips lingering just a little longer, her breath mingling with his.  

Rafe’s focus wavers, his eyes flicking between the road and her with growing urgency. Her kisses deepen, pulling him into a moment that’s both reckless and intoxicating. He’s seconds away from surrender when an unsettling instinct flickers to life. His eyes snap open, and he catches sight of a motorcycle in his peripheral vision—far too close.  

“Shit!” he mutters, swerving sharply to avoid it, his hand gripping the wheel with precision. The car straightens out, the near miss leaving his heart pounding, though his expression remains composed.  

Maddy leans back in her seat, unfazed. “You’re a really good driver,” she hums, as if she hadn’t just caused a near-accident.  

Rafe glances at her, his disbelief evident as his jaw tightens. “Put your seatbelt on,” he orders, his tone firm but low, turning his attention back to the road.  

Maddy grins to herself, her fingers brushing the earrings still in her lap. There’s a warmth lingering in the space between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

Maddy reluctantly settles back into her seat, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she fastens her seatbelt. The soft click echoes in the confined space, but her mind is already moving. “You should get a new tattoo,” she muses, her tone light and playful as she twists to face him.

Rafe arches a brow, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Why?”

“I have an idea for a really good one,” she promises, the excitement already sparking in her voice. She leans forward, reaching for the glove box, her fingers brushing the latch.

“Don’t,” Rafe says sharply, his hand darting out to grip her wrist before she can open it.

The firmness in his tone startles her, and she pulls back slightly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Jesus, is it filled with cocaine or something?” she blurts, the accusation more sarcastic than serious, though her curiosity is piqued when Rafe tilts his head, his silence deliberate.

Her mouth falls open in exaggerated disbelief. “It is?”

“It isn’t,” he assures her, releasing her wrist with a sigh. “I wouldn’t put you in a car full of cocaine. Now would I?”

Maddy shrugs, settling back into her seat but still watching him intently. “I think we’ve established you’re capable of a lot of things,” she retorts, her tone breezy but laced with the kind of familiarity only they shared.

Rafe exhales, running a hand through his hair as he pulls into a mostly empty parking lot. The bodega’s flickering neon sign buzzes faintly in the distance, the only other cars scattered around looking as unassuming as his sleek Jaguar tried not to. He eases the car to a stop and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“There’s nothing in the car, Maddy. I just don’t want you rummaging through my shit,” he says, pushing open the door with a sigh. Maddy frowns, “A LaCroix, please. The hi—”

“Hibiscus, I know.” Rafe finishes for her.

“And p—”

“Pink Starburst, uh-huh.” He waves her off before she can finish the sentence, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Maddy watches him disappear into the shop, her eyes lingering on the broad line of his shoulders as he walks away. Once he’s out of sight, her gaze flickers back to the glove box, her fingers twitching slightly in her lap.

It wouldn’t hurt to peek, right?

Her resolve falters for a moment, but curiosity wins. She glances toward the shop again, ensuring Rafe is fully inside, before cautiously reaching over. Her fingers rest on the latch for a heartbeat before she opens it.

The contents are ordinary at first glance: papers and documentation stacked neatly, the familiar pack of Hubba Bubba gum she leaves in his car for emergencies, and two phone chargers coiled neatly.

But her eyes catch on something else.

Nestled at the back of the compartment, sleek and unmistakable, is a gun.

Maddy’s breath catches as she stares at it, her pulse quickening. It’s not like she didn’t know what Rafe was involved in but seeing the reality of it in such stark clarity sends a shiver down her spine.

She snaps the glove box shut, her fingers trembling slightly as she leans back in her seat, her heart thudding in her chest.

A minute later, the driver's door swings open, and Rafe slides back into the car, a crinkling plastic bag dangling from his hand. He doesn’t rush, settling in as if the silence between them isn’t pressing. From the bag, he pulls out her LaCroix and the familiar pink wrapper of Starbursts. He holds them out to her, but just as her fingers brush the drink, he pulls it back, his gaze locking onto her with unnerving precision.   "You looked in the glove box," he says evenly, his tone a quiet accusation.  

Maddy freezes for a fraction of a second, but her face betrays nothing as she crosses her arms. "No, I didn’t," she says quickly, too quickly, reaching for her drink again.  

Rafe keeps it just out of reach, tilting his head as he studies her. "You’re scared."  

"I’m not scared," she insists, though the way her gaze avoids his, staring fixedly out the windshield, says otherwise.  

He shifts in his seat, his expression softening, but his movements are deliberate. Without warning, he leans over, his fingers deftly clicking open her seatbelt.  

Her head whips toward him, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"  

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, as his hands settle on her hips.  

Her breath catches, a sharp flutter in her chest she wishes she could suppress. Maddy hesitates, gripping the edge of her seat. "It’s fine," she blurts, her voice lighter than she wants it to be. "I didn’t even look in the glove box."  

Rafe rolls his eyes with a soft huff, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Maddy," he says, exasperated but tender, "come here."  

She exhales slowly, kicking off her shoes before reluctantly climbing over the console, her movements slow but deliberate. She settles into his lap, her hands instinctively finding their place on his face. Her thumbs trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones—an action so familiar it feels second nature—and she notices the faintest hint of a smile twitch at the corners of his lips.  

His hand curves around her waist, firm but not forceful, and his voice drops, brushing against her skin like a whisper. "It’s a precaution," he says, his lips so close they almost graze hers.  

Her brows knit together, her voice barely above a whisper. "You never had a gun before. Are you in danger?" Her heart pounds at the question.

Rafe’s chuckle is soft, almost disarming. "I’ve always had a gun," he admits, the revelation slipping out casually as if it were nothing more than a passing fact.  

She frowns, her mind racing to every moment they’d shared, trying to recall any sign, any hint, but there’s nothing. "You’ve *always* had one?"  

"I don’t usually advertise it," he says, his thumb brushing absently against her waist. "It’s a precaution, Maddy. I don’t go around waving it at people."  

Her lips part as if to ask another question, but the weight of it stops her. "Have you ever..." The words catch in her throat, her voice faltering.  

He meets her wide-eyed stare, his brows lifting slightly. "Killed someone?" he finishes for her, his tone light, almost amused. "No, Maddy. Of course not." He exhales a laugh, though it doesn’t completely erase the tension lingering between them.  

"Well, I don’t know!" she snaps, her voice sharp but edged with a genuine bewilderment that makes him laugh harder.  

"I haven’t," he assures her, his laughter fading into a low hum. "And I really hope I never have to. Seems like a real headache to deal with." He leans in, pressing a series of soft, feather-light kisses to her lips, the kind that make her breath hitch despite herself.  

"Although," he adds, his voice teasing as he pulls back slightly, "I deal with you and manage, so maybe?"   Maddy gasps, her hands smacking against his shoulder in mock indignation. "You don’t deserve me," she mutters, though the warmth in her tone betrays the sting of her words as she reaches for the Starbursts he’s still holding.  

Rafe doesn’t respond immediately, his expression softening into something unreadable. Then, as if the words are meant only for him, he murmurs, "Yeah, maybe not..."  

His lips find the curve of her jaw, leaving a trail of kisses that lead up to the shell of her ear. Her breath catches again, and as his arms tighten slightly around her, she wonders how he always manages to pull her closer, even when she swears she’s already as close as she can get.  

"You never listened to my tattoo idea," Maddy murmurs, her words soft as she chews on a piece of candy, the crinkled wrapper already balled up in her hand. Her voice carries an almost playful lilt, though there’s a spark of anticipation in her eyes.  

Rafe glances her way, one hand casually resting on her waist, the other on her lap. "Tell me," he says, his tone indulgent as he reclines his chair slightly, settling in as if prepared for one of her whims.  

Instead of answering, she rummages through her bag, pulling out a lipliner with a victorious smile. "Hold out your hand," she demands, extending her own toward him.  

His brow arches in mild skepticism. "You can’t just tell me?"  

She shakes her head, her grin widening as if she’s already thought five steps ahead. "What better way to convince you than to show you?"  

With a small, reluctant sigh, he places his hand in hers, the warmth of his palm meeting her smaller one. She immediately pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, her fingers brushing lightly over his skin as she searches for the perfect canvas. The touch lingers, deliberate yet unspoken, as if she’s memorizing the lines of his forearm.  

Her concentration deepens, her brows knitting together as she sets to work. Rafe watches her, his lips twitching with amusement when she absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear to keep it from falling into her face. The way her lower lip juts out slightly in focus, the faint smudge of gloss catching the light—everything about her seems unconsciously captivating, and he doesn’t bother hiding the way his gaze lingers.  

"All done." she announces, her voice bright with triumph as she lifts his arm to admire her masterpiece. Her brown eyes gleam with excitement, and Rafe looks at his forearm.  

There, in bold, looping letters, is the declaration: *Property of Madeleine Perez*, encircled by a cluster of hearts.  

He stares at it for a beat before throwing his head back with laughter, the sound rich and unguarded in the small space of the car.  

"You don’t like it?" Maddy asks, tilting her head to admire her work, her smile unwavering.  

"No, no," he manages between chuckles, the corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. "I’m gonna call my tattoo artist first thing in the morning. That’s how much I love it."  

She beams, her expression pure mischief as she leans down and presses a quick kiss to his lips, her hand lingering on his cheek. "You’re not serious, but I think it would send the right message to people, you know? Just so no one wastes their time."  

Rafe’s laughter softens, his gaze locking with hers. "The right message to people, huh? Or just to girls?"  

Her thumb grazes his lips, the touch feather-light yet deliberate. "You said it," she murmurs, her voice quieter now, though no less teasing. Her dark eyes search his, a subtle challenge dancing within them.  

"Careful, Perez," he warns softly, his nose brushing against hers as his fingers tighten gently around her waist. "Don’t go falling in love with me now."