patty (she/her) | 21 | latina

soft soul with a dreamy heart. writer of tender chaos & slow burn tension.

currently writing for: drew starkey & rafe cameron.

romanticizing life one book at a time.

i saw a comment under one of ur fics saying smth ab ai

and i just wanted to ask if u do use ai in ur work or not?

thanks

i have a request 🤸🏽‍♀️

could you write something based on the tik tok trend "Telling my husband I Signed him up for '100 men vs gorilla'" , please? like you make this joke to rafe/drew, how do you think he will react? ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

example:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSkmUUpfr/

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSkmUmsSo/

So I Signed You Up for Something…

rafe cameron x reader

a/n: hi, im so sorry this took me so long to write 😭 i loved the request tho and it was so funny to think of all the possible reactions rafe could have had to it

The phone is perfectly hidden, angled behind a candle on the dresser like it’s just part of the aesthetic. You check it twice, make sure the red recording light is tucked safely out of view. Then you inhale, smooth out your expression, and walk into the living room like nothing’s going on.

Rafe’s sprawled across the couch in his usual position. Hood up. Legs draped over the cushions like he fell there and decided to live forever. He’s snacking on something crunchy, completely oblivious.

You lift your phone to your ear like you’re in the middle of a Very Serious Call. Calm. Focused. Methodical.

“Yeah,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. “He’s confirmed. I already sent in the paperwork this morning. Should be all good to go.”

There’s a pause. He shifts slightly but doesn’t look up. Yet.

You pace a little, just to sell it. “Uh-huh. Six two, athletic, decent pain tolerance. Pretty competitive. Bit of a short fuse, but I think that’ll help in this situation.”

That gets him.

Rafe’s head tilts. He doesn’t speak, just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re talking about him—or about someone you’re cheating with. Both seem equally concerning at this point.

“Wait,” he says, mouth full of pretzels, “who’s got a short fuse? And what situation?”

You give him a dismissive little wave and keep going, completely in character. “No, I haven’t told him yet. I figured I’d wait until the waiver comes through. He’ll be fine, though. He doesn’t scare easy.”

That’s when he puts the pretzels down.

“Okay, seriously,” he says, sitting up like his whole body just remembered how to move, “what’s going on? Who doesn’t scare easy? What waiver? Why are we using words like waiver in this house?”

You end the fake call with a casual “Alright, cool—talk soon,” and slide your phone into your back pocket. Then you look at Rafe like this is the most normal Tuesday of your life.

He’s already staring at you like you’re a stranger who broke into his house. “What was that?”

You settle on the edge of the couch beside him. “So, I signed you up for something.”

His face does not say “Oh, fun.” His face says, “I knew it. This is how I die.”

“What kind of something?” he asks, eyes narrowing, voice cautious.

You hesitate just long enough to build suspense. Then:

“It’s called 100 Men vs One Gorilla.”

He blinks once. Twice. “…The hell did you just say to me?”

“It’s like a controlled test,” you explain, perfectly calm. “You and ninety-nine other guys in a stadium. One adult male silverback gorilla. You don’t get weapons. Just teamwork. And adrenaline.”

Rafe’s mouth falls open like his soul just left his body.

“Excuse me?” he chokes out. “Did you just say no weapons?! Against a gorilla?!”

You nod solemnly. “You’d be surprised how far human coordination can go in a—”

“STOP.” He throws his hands up. “Do you know what a gorilla is? Do you?! That’s not a raccoon. That’s not a confused bear. That’s muscle and rage in a fur coat! You put me in a ring with a gorilla, you might as well start digging the hole now!”

You bite your lip. “I thought it’d be a fun challenge?”

“A fun ch—are you insane?!” He stands up like the very idea offended his bloodline. “This is how you surprise me? Not a weekend trip. Not a PS5. You hand me a death sentence with a smile?”

He’s pacing now. Talking with his hands. Completely gone. “I got shin splints walking through the mall yesterday. And you think I’m gonna square up with something that can bench press a car?”

You’re wheezing now. Laughing so hard your face hurts.

He pauses mid-rant, staring. “Why are you laughing?”

You try to breathe. Try to talk. Fail.

“No, seriously. Why—why are you laughing like that?” His voice cracks. “What kind of joke is this?”

Finally, between gasps, you manage: “Because… it is a joke.”

He blinks. “What?”

You gesture toward the dresser, tears in your eyes. “I was recording a TikTok. It’s a prank.”

He stares at you. Looks toward the dresser. Doesn’t spot anything. Turns back to you with the most betrayed expression of all time.

“You’re kidding.”

You shake your head, still laughing.

“You made me think I was gonna get murdered by a gorilla, for a TikTok?!”

You fall back onto the couch, gasping.

Rafe runs a hand down his face, grinning now despite himself. “I was already accepting my fate. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I resigned to death. I was about to Google if gorillas respect eye contact.”

You sit up, wiping your tears. “So… you’re not mad?”

“Oh no,” he says darkly, collapsing next to you. “But I am plotting. Enjoy peace while it lasts, baby girl.”

You smirk. “Worth it.”

He glares at you with a smile twitching on his lips. “You are unwell.”

maybe drew is all shy and blushing, while reader is like YES!!!!! about it

it's fine if you're uncomfy with this request 🩷

thank you so much 🫶🏻

Thirsty, Flustered, and Buzzfeed Approved

drew starkey x actress!reader

an: this was so fun to write. i think the tweets could have been better but i think it still ended up being pretty chaotic just like usual lol

warnings: suggestive content, chaotic energy, twitter thirst, drew blushing, reader thriving

“Is there a safe word for this?” Drew mutters as the red tweet cards are dropped into your lap.

You flash him a mischievous grin. “Not unless it’s ‘retweet.’”

He huffs out a nervous laugh and rubs a hand down his thigh — his tell. You know he’s already blushing and you haven’t even read the first one.

You angle yourself toward the camera like this is your Oscars moment. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

“And I’m Drew,” he says warily, glancing at the stack like it might bite.

“And today,” you continue, gesturing grandly at the chaos you’re about to unleash, “we’re reading thirst tweets. Because apparently, people on the internet think my boyfriend is made of sex and sadness.”

He chokes immediately. “What?!”

You arch a brow. “Tell me I’m wrong. You get cast as one broody guy and suddenly it’s, ‘Fold me like laundry, Drew.’”

He blinks at the camera like he’s searching for divine help. “I didn’t ask for this.”

You grin. “Neither did the internet. But here we are.”

You pluck the top tweet off the pile and read it with dramatic flair.

“Drew Starkey could fold me like a lawn chair and I’d say thank you, sir.”

You pause. Blink once. Then slowly fan yourself with the card. “We’re off to a strong start.”

Drew recoils like the words physically hit him. “Oh my God—why does everyone want to be inanimate objects around me?!”

You pat his thigh. “Don’t kink shame, baby. Maybe they just want to be handled with care and stored seasonally.”

His face drops into his hands. “Please delete me from the internet.”

“Too late. You belong to the Twitter girlies now.”

Still giggling, you reach for the next one.

“Y/N could read me a bedtime story and I’d still wake up sweating. She’s got that ‘ruin your REM cycle’ energy.”

Drew snorts. “You do. Like a really hot fever dream.”

You shoot him a grin. “So I’m both the nightmare and the fantasy?”

He looks right into the lens and says, deadpan, “She terrifies me.”

You smile sweetly. “And yet, you’re in love with me.”

He makes a show of sighing as he picks the next one.

“Drew Starkey’s voice could get me pregnant. Just one ‘hey’ and I’d be in my third trimester.”

Drew groans like he’s in physical pain. “Why are they so bold?!”

You lean into the mic. “To the author of this tweet: Drew says ‘hey.’ Please let us know your due date. We’ll start a registry.”

He looks at you, appalled. “You are not helping.”

“Oh, I’m not here to help. I’m here to narrate your descent into flustered chaos.”

He glares, but there’s no real heat — mostly because you’re absolutely thriving. He grabs another one with a dramatic sigh.

“If Y/N told me to sit, I’d ask which position.”

Drew wheezes.

You hold up a finger. “No thoughts. Just obedience.”

He eyes you like you’ve grown horns. “So this is what chaos feels like.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s still chuckling when he reads the next one.

“Drew could wear a garbage bag and I’d still risk it all. Man has ‘take me against the wall during a thunderstorm’ energy.”

You throw your head back and cackle. “Who hurt you, babe?!”

Drew is pink, laughing helplessly. “This is a spiritual journey.”

You nod solemnly. “Buzzfeed Thirst Tweets: where therapy and horniness hold hands.”

You snatch the next one from the pile like it personally offended you.

“Y/N’s mouth is a sin and I would like to confess mine to her.”

You arch a brow and turn to Drew. “Be honest. Was this one you?”

He splutters. “WHAT?! No!”

You smirk. “Would’ve been a great opener.”

His ears go beet red. “I’m honored. Deeply. Also embarrassed.”

He plucks the next card, eyes widening.

“Drew Starkey has the kind of face that makes me wanna ruin the friendship, the lease, and the entire tax bracket.”

You point. “SEE? Not even financially safe. You’re a hazard.”

He nods gravely. “I’m a liability.”

You tilt your head, grinning. “You’re hot. Same thing.”

You pick another.

“Y/N could say my name once and I’d forget my own mother’s birthday.”

You nod thoughtfully. “That’s fair.”

He glances at you. “You agree kinda fast.”

You smile. “What can I say? My name sounds good when you say it.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering for just a beat too long.

You blink. “Sir—?”

He clears his throat, grabbing the next tweet like it’s life support.

“Drew Starkey looks like he’d pin you against the kitchen counter and still ask if you want oat milk or almond afterward.”

You clutch your chest. “Chef’s kiss. Domestic AND filthy.”

He shrugs. “I mean, options are important.”

You stare at him. “You’re… a little too comfortable with that one.”

He just grins. “I like breakfast.”

You gasp. “Sir.”

You swipe another card.

“Y/N has the aura of a woman who would sit on your lap, tell you she’s mad, and still look hot doing it.”

Drew nearly falls off the couch laughing. “Yeah, actually. That checks out.”

You glance at the camera. “I’ve never done that. More than twice.”

You both turn to the camera, flushed and full of chaotic joy.

“Thank you for watching Buzzfeed Celeb,” you say, raising the last card like a toast.

“Please stay hydrated. And maybe go outside,” Drew adds.

“And maybe stop giving us ideas.”

“Or don’t,” Drew says, smirking. “I’m kind of into it.”

You eye him playfully. “I knew you wrote one of these.”

He shrugs with zero shame. “Guilty.”

You lean in, just enough to make him swallow. “See you in the kitchen later?”

He flashes a grin. “Oat milk or almond?”

so i was thinking of fluff LOL because i just saw this funny video from insta reels,

drew starkey x reader

maybe shes getting her wisdom tooth taken out and when they have to put cotton in her mouth to stop the bleeding shes like "no! i want my boyfriend:((((((" so they ask him to help and he just comforts you wrapping his arms around your waist and your arms and around his neck crying while hes laughing LMAO and the dentists are like 🥲🥲🥲

-N🕷

My Soul Gauze

drew starkey x reader

a/n: this was so funny to write, coming off anesthesia after wisdom teeth surgery is fr a different kind of high lol

You wake up with the vague sensation that your jaw lost a fight.

Everything feels floaty—like your body’s underwater and your head’s filled with helium. Your mouth is dry, the taste of cotton and something vaguely metallic clinging to your tongue. Your cheeks feel swollen, like someone stuffed marshmallows inside your face.

A soft overhead light hums above you. A nurse is adjusting something near your IV, her voice calm as she notices you stirring.

“There she is,” she says gently. “You’re all done, sweetheart. Surgery went really well.”

You blink slowly, eyes sticky with sleep. You try to nod, but it turns into more of a wobbly lurch that almost unbalances your entire body.

Then it hits you in slow-motion memory: wisdom teeth. All four. Ripped from your skull like some kind of molar eviction notice.

You open your mouth, trying to say something, but the gauze makes everything sound like a bad impression of someone mid-marble-eating contest.

“Whehr… m’boyfrien’?” you mumble, frowning.

The nurse leans in. “You’re asking for your boyfriend?”

You nod again, blinking dramatically. “Drew. I want Drew.”

“He’s in the waiting room. I’ll grab him in just a minute, okay? But first, we need to switch out the gauze in your mouth and—”

“Nooo…” you whimper, voice soft and pitiful. “Don’t wanna. Jus’ want Drew.”

Your lip wobbles, and your arms reach out like that alone might summon him. When the nurse picks up the gauze, you recoil like it’s a personal betrayal. “No more cotton. Only Drew,” you mumble thickly, eyes filling with tears.

The nurse gives a knowing smile and sets the gauze aside. “Okay, I get it. Let’s bring him back here.”

A couple minutes later, Drew steps into the recovery room—and immediately bites his lip to keep from laughing.

You’re half-slumped in the chair, cheeks puffed out like a cartoon chipmunk, hair messy from the pillow, and gauze dangling slightly from your mouth. The second you see him, your arms lift weakly toward him like you’ve been stranded on a desert island.

“Hey,” he says softly, walking over. “You made it.”

Your eyes fill again. “They tried to give me more cotton,” you mumble around the gauze.

Drew crouches next to you, gently brushing some hair off your forehead. “Tragic,” he murmurs. “Attacked by fluffy white danger.”

You sniff, lower lip trembling. “Didn’t want them. I said I only wanted you.”

The nurse hands Drew a clean set of gauze. “You mind giving us a hand? She’s not letting anyone near her mouth but you.”

Drew glances up, then back at you. “Yeah. I can do that.”

He carefully takes the cotton, and with the nurse’s guidance, helps ease the new gauze into place as you lean into his chest, clumsy hands grabbing the front of his hoodie. Your tears stop almost instantly as soon as his arms are around you.

“There you go,” he says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Easy.”

You sigh against him. “M’tired,” you whisper. “I wanna go home.”

“I know. Almost there.”

“Can we get Chick-fil-A?”

Drew snorts. “Baby, you can’t eat solid food right now.”

“I can suck on a waffle fry,” you argue, though it’s barely coherent.

He laughs again, hand rubbing your back. “We’ll get you a milkshake.”

The nurse chuckles under her breath. “You’ve got your hands full with this one.”

“She’s full of gauze and opinions,” Drew grins.

You nuzzle into his shoulder. “He’s my gauze-band,” you mumble.

He freezes, then looks down at you. “Did you just call me your gauze-band?”

You nod, serious. “It’s romantic.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “You’re definitely still high.”

It takes another twenty minutes to get you out the door—mostly because you argue with Drew about why mashed potatoes “totally count as a soft food,” and start crying again when your phone brightness is too high.

Eventually, Drew gets you buckled into the passenger seat, hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, head leaning against the window.

You look over at him with the dopiest, dreamiest smile. “I love you more than applesauce.”

Drew starts the car, still smiling. “I love you more than soup. Which is really saying something.”

You nod like that’s the greatest declaration of all time and promptly fall asleep five minutes into the drive, a faint line of drool slipping past your bottom lip.

When he gets you home, you’re out cold on his shoulder, still smiling, gauze in place.

Drew carries you inside, lays you on the couch gently, and kisses your forehead.

“I love you more than applesauce too,” he whispers.

Even if you did call him your gauze-band.

Slow Mornings

drew starkey x actress!reader

an: hiii, thank you so much! i absolutely adored this idea, i hope i did it justice!

You wake up slowly, to the familiar sounds of a half-awake man making questionable decisions in the kitchen.

There’s the low clatter of pans, the hum of the stove kicking on, and the unmistakable sound of someone muttering under their breath—followed by a sharp “Ow,” and what you’re fairly certain is bacon grease claiming its next victim.

You smile, eyes still shut, tucked beneath a blanket that smells like him.

It’s barely 8 a.m., and there’s sunlight peeking through the curtains in wide stripes, casting soft shadows across the sheets. You know the drill by now. Drew wakes up before you, thinks he’s being quiet, and tries to cook something while half asleep.

And still, it’s one of your favorite things.

You finally drag yourself out of bed and pull on the hoodie hanging off the back of the chair—his, oversized and warm—and pad barefoot into the hallway. The scent of coffee, bacon, and slightly over-toasted bread pulls you the rest of the way.

You find him exactly where you expected: shirtless at the stove, hair sticking up, focus locked in on a pan like it’s fighting back. His pajama pants sit low on his hips, and he has no idea you’re standing there just… watching him. Absently obsessed.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his bare torso, cheek resting gently between his shoulder blades.

He pauses. “You’re lucky I didn’t just throw hot coffee at you.”

“Sounds like a guilty conscience,” you mumble, tightening your grip around him. “Smells like something’s burning.”

“First of all, it’s under control.”

“Is it, though?”

You feel his body shift as he laughs softly and leans back into you a little, letting you cling while he flips something in the pan with the kind of confidence that doesn’t match the smell coming off the stovetop.

You stay quiet for a few seconds, just holding onto him. Hands resting against his warm skin, thumbs moving in lazy circles. It’s not even about anything specific. It’s just him. Just the quiet. Just the fact that this feels better than anything else you’ve got going on today.

“I don’t know what it is about mornings,” you murmur, “but I turn into some clingy, koala version of myself when you start cooking.”

He glances down at you over his shoulder, amused. “I’ve noticed.”

“I make no apologies.”

“You didn’t seem like you were going to.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder and stay there, attached to him while he moves around the kitchen. He adjusts without missing a beat—reaching for the salt, sliding the pan to another burner—all with you wrapped around him like it’s just part of the routine now.

“You really gonna just cling the whole time?” he asks, biting back a grin.

“Yup.”

“No intention of helping?”

“I’m helping emotionally.”

“Oh, well then—thank you for your service.”

You hum, pleased with yourself, and tip your chin to press a light kiss against the back of his neck. He shivers slightly but doesn’t say anything. You catch the smile he’s trying not to show.

He plates the food—eggs, toast, bacon, nothing fancy, but it looks better than you expected. You loosen your grip just enough for him to turn in your arms. His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady.

“You know you can just say you like me,” he teases, raising a brow.

You blink up at him, lips twitching. “You’re alright.”

He leans in before you can say anything else, kissing you soft and slow. No rush, no showy gesture—just the kind of kiss that fits perfectly into a morning like this. Familiar. Sweet. Steady. You feel his hand slide up your back as he presses you a little closer.

You kiss him again—because one’s not enough—and he laughs against your mouth, pulling back just a little, forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You want coffee?” he asks.

“I want you to keep standing here while I stare at you.”

“You are very normal.”

“I’m self-aware.”

He chuckles and brushes his lips over yours once more before moving to grab two mugs from the cabinet. You follow him across the kitchen, arms still loosely looped around his waist.

Because yeah, breakfast is nice.

But this—quiet mornings, no makeup, bare feet, the way he keeps brushing your hair behind your ear without thinking—this is better.

you should write a story about drew and his love interest's actor on obx and how they instantly click when they first meet and decide to move in together while filming is going on, and they become like really really close best friends and fans and the rest of the cast are always shipping them but they tell everyone they are "just friends" even when they fall asleep cuddling sometimes, and reader wears drews clothes all the time (and stuff like that) and then they slowly start to realize they have fallen for eachother. drew takes her on one of their late night drives and confesses his feelings for her and she tells him that she feels the same

again idk if this is bad but its just an idea :) feel free to ignore!

More Than Just Friends

drew starkey x co!star!reader

a/n: i'm back y'all. i loved this idea so much cause i love slow burn/friends to lovers trope. idk if this is my best work tho not writing for a week really made me rusty lol

The conference room door lets out a soft creak as you push it open, just loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation. The noise inside doesn’t vanish—just dips, like a ripple across the surface of still water. Not silence. Not drama. Just that fleeting, collective pause when a new presence is clocked and measured.

Still, you smile. Like your heart isn’t pressing against your ribs, like your palms aren’t a little too warm. You step inside with practiced ease, letting the door fall shut behind you.

The air is thick with the scent of burnt coffee and freshly printed paper. The room is bigger than you expected, sunlit and echoey, the kind of bright that makes your eyes adjust. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast long streaks of light across the polished table that stretches through the center of the space, already cluttered with highlighters, half-empty water bottles, branded OBX pens, and a chaos of cords and chargers that look like territorial markers.

You spot your name card at the far end and start the awkward dance of slipping between chairs and elbows, offering polite nods as you go.

“Look who finally made it,” Madison calls out, her voice lilting with amusement. She’s sprawled in her seat like a queen surveying her court, sunglasses pushed into her hair, iced coffee in hand, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Smug, radiant.

“I’m right on time,” you reply, lifting a brow. “Bet you ten bucks I’m still earlier than JD.”

“Wrong,” JD announces from behind her, voice theatrical. “Already here. Already disappointed.”

You glance over to find him lounging with full commitment—legs spread, chair tipped slightly back, Gatorade in hand, script unopened like it personally offended him.

“Alright, alright,” Chase mumbles from the far end, flipping pages without looking up. “Let her breathe before you scare her off.”

“You think I scare people?” JD feigns innocence, widening his eyes.

“You terrify me,” Madison deadpans, drawing out a round of quiet laughter.

You finally reach your seat—and pause.

He’s already there.

Drew.

He’s settled into the chair beside yours, legs stretched out, ankle resting on one knee. His script is open across his lap, pen between his teeth as he skims the page with a relaxed kind of focus. When he senses you, his eyes lift.

He grins. Not a stranger’s grin. Not polite or obligatory. It’s the kind that tugs at something inside you. Familiar. Knowing.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm, edged with teasing. “Guess I’m stuck with you now.”

You slide into your seat, dropping your bag at your feet. “Was that a compliment or a complaint?”

He leans an inch closer, the kind of lean that makes the space between you hum. “Depends how today goes.”

You shouldn’t feel this at ease. You’ve only met him once—during your chemistry read two weeks ago—but it stuck. The way your lines had synced without trying. The way he’d texted after like you were already mid-conversation. Not flirty. Just...attentive. Like he was curious about you in a quiet, persistent way.

You open your script and try not to notice how close his elbow is to yours.

“Nice of you to show up,” Madelyn says from across the table, nudging a bag of pretzels in your direction. “We were about to start placing bets.”

“I already placed mine,” Rudy adds. “Said she’d be late but would style it out like a pro.”

You shoot him a look. “And?”

He shrugs. “You were cool about it.”

The door swings open again. Austin strolls in, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, coffee clutched in one hand, hoodie halfway on. “Did we start?”

“Do we ever start on time?” Chase doesn’t even look up.

“Touché,” Austin mutters, dropping into the seat beside Rudy.

The door opens once more and this time it’s the director, followed closely by the showrunner and a handful of writers. The shift is immediate. Spines straighten. Phones are pocketed. Scripts snap open.

“Alright, everyone,” the director calls out, clapping his hands once. “Episode One. Let’s dive in.”

Voices layer together as the read begins. A stumble here, a laugh there. JD plays his part with extra dramatics, earning snorts. Madison’s delivery is razor-sharp without breaking a sweat. Chase barely glances at the script, like it’s already been carved into his brain.

You ease into your role with steady confidence. No fireworks. Just setting the rhythm.

Until they call it—your first scene with Drew.

Your name. His. Episode Two, Scene Four.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

No smirk this time. Just a subtle nod, the kind that says, we’ve got this.

The air shifts.

The dialogue between your characters is electric—sharp, flirt-heavy, a verbal chess match where no one really wants to win. You toss your lines like punches, and he parries every one with practiced ease.

“You always talk this much?” you say, tone dry, eyebrow lifted.

Drew doesn’t miss a beat. “Only when I like the company.”

The table goes still for half a breath, then laughter bubbles under the surface, but it doesn’t break the moment. You’re in it. Fully. The rhythm comes easy, like the words aren’t from the page but from your own lips. He plays with the cadence of one line, and it hits different—enough that your smile almost slips in.

He watches you, even when it isn’t his turn to speak. Not intensely. Not in a way that feels staged. Just...like he’s listening. Really listening.

When the scene ends, the silence stretches longer than usual.

Someone exhales. Probably Chase.

“Well, damn,” Rudy mutters. “Guess we don’t have to worry about chemistry.”

“I thought you two were already sleeping together,” JD blurts out.

Madison swats his arm. “Shut up. But, yeah. That was good.”

The director grins. “Alright, let’s take five. Hydrate. Shake it out.”

You stand slowly, your hands still buzzing. Madison appears at your side before you’ve even stepped away.

She leans in. “You two read like you’re already in love.”

You keep your voice casual. “He’s just good at what he does.”

She smirks. “Uh-huh.”

Across the room, Drew catches your eye again. He’s still in his seat, still holding that pen, spinning it between his fingers. He smiles, slower this time.

You look away last.

It’s just a scene. Just a read.

But something lingers.

The scent of smoke and salt rides the breeze, mingling with the faint sweetness of sunscreen and something vaguely citrus—maybe someone’s drink. The sand crunches beneath your sneakers as you step onto the beach, drawn toward the flicker of the bonfire glowing in the distance like a beacon.

Someone had floated the idea earlier—JD, most likely. Maybe Rudy. A night off, no call sheets, no early reports, and the first of shooting finally over. Just fire and sky and a chance to be young and loud under the stars.

You spot the group before they spot you. The fire throws warm light across their faces—Chase waving smoke away from his hair, Madison curled up on a blanket with marshmallows in her lap, JD strumming a ukulele like it wronged him personally.

And then there’s Drew.

He’s sitting with his back to the fire, beer bottle loose in his grip, legs stretched out in the sand. He’s laughing at something Madelyn’s saying, head tilted, flannel shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the wind.

It hits you—how easy this all feels. Like it’s always been this way.

Madelyn sees you and waves, her smile wide. “Hey! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you call, making your way across the sand.

You settle near the edge of the group, close enough for the warmth, far enough to avoid the smoke’s path.

Drew turns, and the moment he sees you, something shifts behind his expression. Softer. Brighter.

“There she is,” he says. “You almost missed JD’s ukulele rendition of ‘Wonderwall.’”

You raise a brow. “Tragic.”

Madelyn snorts. “Don’t worry, he’s got a whole encore planned.”

“I do not,” JD protests, plucking a dramatically sour note.

The night blurs into motion—laughter, marshmallows catching fire, drinks passed hand to hand, the hum of acoustic music weaving in and out of conversation.

When a chill skims over your skin, you shiver before you can stop it.

Drew notices.

Without a word, he shrugs off his flannel and hands it to you. You hesitate, but he just lifts a brow like don’t argue. So you pull it on.

It’s warm. Smells like bonfire and soap and something faintly musky that might be his cologne. You let yourself sink into it.

“You do this for all your co-stars?” you ask.

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine.”

He settles beside you, elbows resting on his knees, shoulder brushing yours.

The fire cracks. The ocean rolls quietly behind the noise. And the two of you—without meaning to—find a bubble of silence between it all.

He tilts his head toward you. “What’d you want to be when you were little?”

You blink. “Random.”

“Go.”

“Broadway set designer,” you say. “You?”

“Astronaut.”

You laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Wanted the helmet.”

The questions keep coming. Silly ones. Real ones. You talk about movies and fears and favorite snacks. He listens like every answer matters. And when he talks, it’s unguarded, honest.

At some point, he leans back, eyes on the sky. “You feel like someone I’ve known longer than a week.”

You glance at him. “Yeah. You too.”

Madelyn walks past with a smug grin. “Just friends, huh?”

“Of course,” Drew says smoothly.

You just smile. Because no one says otherwise. But the flannel stays on your shoulders. And his shoulder stays right there beside yours.

The night settles around you, soft and endless. And whatever this is—it feels like the start of something. Quiet. Unspoken.

But real.

A few days later, the afternoon clings to your skin, thick with humidity. The air on set is heavy, as if the ocean breeze gave up trying to reach you. Sunlight glints off metal light rigs and bleaches the world into a palette of soft golds and heatwaves. You're perched on the edge of a weathered crate, script limp in your lap, words blurring in the warmth. Your focus is fractured — eyes skimming dialogue while your thoughts drift elsewhere.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. Instinctive. Quick. You check it.

It’s the plumber.

You press it to your ear, already bracing.

His voice is apologetic, laced with static and something far more frustrating — uncertainty. The plumbing in the Airbnb is worse than expected. The repairs will take longer than they thought. No promises, no estimates. Just a vague “could take a while.”

Your stomach clenches. You nod even though he can’t see it and murmur your thanks before hanging up. You drop the phone into your lap like it’s burned you.

That’s when Drew walks by. He’s headed toward the craft services table, a bottle of water dangling from one hand, his other swiping at the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off the heat. His gaze lands on you — instinctive, precise — and he changes course without hesitation.

He drops down beside you, thigh brushing yours, and just like that, the air feels easier to breathe.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t ripple past the two of you.

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the gravel at your feet. “The plumbing at my place. It’s a mess. No idea when it’ll be fixed.”

He watches you for a moment, brows pulling together. “You’re still staying at the Airbnb?”

“Yeah.” You exhale. “It’s… not ideal.”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just long enough to make you glance over. Drew runs a hand through his hair, already ruffled from the heat, then turns to you with a kind of simple certainty that catches you off guard.

“You don’t have to do that by yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve got space. A whole extra room I’m not using.” He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Move in. Just until it’s fixed. I mean, if you want.”

He says it casually, but there's something solid underneath it — like the offer comes from somewhere deeper than convenience.

You search his face, and for once, don’t find anything but sincerity.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He grins, that crooked one that always makes your chest feel a little lighter. “You’d be closer to set. And, selfishly, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

For a second, the weight you’ve been carrying lifts. Just a bit.

You nod slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “You’ll fit right in.”

Drew pushes open the door and gestures you in with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome home.”

Inside, the apartment is an organized mess — the kind that’s lived in, not neglected. Sand-dusted sneakers line the entryway. A pile of half-folded laundry claims one end of the couch. On the coffee table, a jigsaw puzzle sprawls between empty mugs and dog-eared scripts. The air smells like sea salt and cinnamon candles, like home that doesn’t try too hard.

You drop your bag by the door and let it all wash over you.

That night, you end up on the couch with Drew, a half-watched movie flickering across the screen. The throw blanket slides from your shoulders and before you even reach for it, he tucks it gently around you. His arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away.

Your feet find his beneath the blanket. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, soft enough to be missed if you weren’t already listening for him.

You tug his hoodie tighter, the scent of his laundry detergent warm against your skin. “Me too.”

The days begin to blur, soft edges folding into something warm and familiar.

Mornings start with shared coffee and overlapping playlists. Grocery runs turn into minor battles — you reach for spinach, he tosses in Oreos. You call him dramatic for choosing the worst cereal, he accuses you of being a health nut. The checkout clerk smiles like she’s seen this a hundred times.

Nights belong to movies and stolen fries and blankets that never quite stay in place. You curl closer without thinking. He never pulls away.

His hoodie becomes yours — unofficially at first. It spends more time on your frame than in his closet, the sleeves always too long, the neckline soft from wear. You tell yourself it’s because the AC is too cold, but even you don’t believe that.

The apartment pulses with cast energy — Rudy’s storytelling echoing down the hallway, Madelyn’s laughter spilling from the kitchen, JD’s endless commentary on whatever game is on. It’s chaotic, imperfect, and somehow… right.

In between the noise and routine, there’s this quiet thread that winds between you and Drew — unspoken but steady.

Weeks have blurred together, and by now, the trailer feels like a second skin. When you step inside, both hands wrapped around a to-go cup like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, everything is just as it’s been for days. The early morning sunlight slips through the narrow windows, catching the same gold flecks in the mirrors, casting that familiar hazy glow across the space. The air carries the usual mix of hairspray and coffee — a scent that’s settled into the walls — and the soft playlist humming in the background might as well be on an endless loop, queued up long before the sun even thought about rising.

You collapse into your usual chair with a yawn and nod at the makeup artist, who greets you with a knowing smile.

“Rough morning?”

“Does it show?” you mumble, taking another sip.

She laughs. “Natural today?”

You nod, already zoning out as the brush glides across your cheek.

Madison lounges on the bench behind you, still half-asleep, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as she scrolls through her phone. She glances up.

“Did you seriously walk out in his hoodie again?”

You glance down — the familiar grey fabric is draped across you, soft and oversized. You hadn’t even thought about it. It had been slung over the stool from last night, right where Drew left it after your terrible Netflix shark movie marathon.

You sip your coffee again, hoping the heat hides the way your cheeks flush.

Madison smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you can reply, the trailer door swings open and lets in a blast of voices. JD and Chase barrel in mid-debate, the kind only they could be this passionate about at seven a.m.

“Ketchup on eggs should be illegal,” JD announces dramatically.

Chase barely glances up. “You’re wrong and uncultured.”

You lift your coffee cup. “Morning to you too.”

JD points at you like he’s just remembered something vital. “You and Drew playing house again?”

You roll your eyes, digging for your foundation sponge. “We watched a movie. That’s it.”

Madelyn drifts over, sipping tea. “A movie that required your feet to be in his lap?”

Chase spits out his drink. “Wait, what?”

“Rudy told me.”

You snort. “Rudy wasn’t there.”

Madelyn just shrugs. “Rudy knows things.”

The trailer door opens again, and in steps Drew — hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess, smoothie in hand. He pauses just inside as the air shifts, the teasing still fresh on everyone’s faces.

His eyes find yours instantly. There’s a subtle softening in his expression — like the chaos doesn’t matter, not when you’re here.

“You left without me this morning,” he says, moving to the chair beside you.

“You were passed out with a cereal box on your chest,” you reply, grinning. “Didn’t want to disturb art.”

Laughter bubbles around the trailer.

“You two are disgusting,” Chase groans.

“Right?” Madison adds. “They have a fruit bowl. A fruit bowl.”

You laugh. “It’s barely a bowl. It’s chipped and was five bucks at the antique shop.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you argued about cereal for twenty minutes,” JD points out.

Drew sips his smoothie, unbothered. “And I was right.”

You smirk. “It’s just sugar and regret.”

“You love it,” he murmurs, and you feel it — that shift. That pulse in the air that always tightens your chest a little too much.

Chase pokes your arm. “You’re wearing his shirt again.”

Drew answers before you can. “Her shirt now.”

Madelyn gasps. “I’m begging you — just kiss already.”

“If you two fall asleep on the couch again, I’m charging rent,” JD adds.

You laugh — but it comes out soft. Tentative.

You glance at Drew.

He’s already looking at you. And beneath the usual teasing spark in his eyes, there’s something quieter. Something that stays with you even when you look away.

“We’re just friends,” he says.

But the words feel like a stone tossed into still water — quiet, but rippling outward.

“They’re just messing around,” you say to him under your breath later, as everyone scatters for rehearsal.

“I know.” He hesitates. “But I don’t care what they say.”

You glance up.

“I like this,” he says. “I like us. You make this feel easier.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, barely whispering: “Me too.”

And then you’re swept into the current again — called to set, scripts in hand, pretending to be someone else. But somewhere between lines and takes, you find his eyes across the room.

And it still feels like home.

Time moves differently now — days folding into each other, marked only by small, quiet rituals. Hours ago, the trailer buzzed with the hum of early morning. Now, the apartment is thick with the scent of cinnamon and browned butter, warm and heady, curling through the air like a promise.

Sunlight, deeper now, spills through the kitchen window in rich, honeyed beams, cutting through the steam rising off the griddle and painting the countertops gold. The rush of earlier hours has faded. This moment feels suspended — still, glowing, unrushed — as if the day itself is taking a long breath.

You stand barefoot on cool tile, hair twisted up in a loose knot that’s barely holding on, sleeves pushed to your elbows. There’s a smudge of flour on your cheekbone that you don’t know about, and batter stains the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt. The fabric brushes against your thighs when you move, clinging slightly from the kitchen’s warmth.

From Drew’s phone on the counter, a lazy Sunday playlist hums along—soulful, smooth, a little ridiculous. “Return of the Mack” starts up, and like clockwork, he’s sliding across the floor in socks, shoulders rolling dramatically as he dances his way back into the kitchen.

You don’t turn. Just flip a pancake with practiced ease. “Don’t quit your day job.”

Behind you, he gasps. “Rude. This is elite choreography. You’re witnessing greatness.”

You bite back a grin. “It’s a health hazard.”

“No,” he says, coming up behind you, “it’s joy.”

He’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the ghost of his body heat brushing your back. He bumps your hip with his as he reaches around to grab a banana slice off the cutting board, snickering when you elbow him lightly in protest.

“Back off. This is a sacred space.”

“I’m assisting,” he says, as if holding a title. “Sous-chef.”

“You assisting means I’ll be cleaning banana off the ceiling in twenty minutes.”

“I bring the vibes,” he says proudly, grabbing a plate from the cabinet.

“You bring chaos.”

He smirks, unbothered. The music’s louder now, and the morning has a pulse to it—warm and bright and just a little bit unsteady.

You flip another pancake, lean down to grab a clean plate from the lower cabinet—and forget, for one stupid second, how close your hand is to the edge of the hot pan.

The hiss comes first.

Then the sting.

“Shit—ow. Shit.”

Before the pain even fully registers, Drew’s beside you. His easygoing rhythm halts completely, brows drawn tight as he catches your wrist. “What happened?”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to wave it off, but he doesn’t listen. He gently, but firmly, guides your hand under the faucet and turns the water on cold.

The stream rushes over your finger, and you hiss again, this time more from surprise than pain. His hand covers yours, thumb resting lightly on your wrist to keep it steady.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, the music behind you fading into a background hum. The air’s changed. Still, but charged.

You nod, blinking. “Yeah. I’ve done worse. Just a dumb mistake.”

“It’s not dumb.”

The way he says it makes you pause. And before you can respond, he lifts your hand—slowly, gently—and presses a kiss to the tip of your burned finger.

It’s feather-light. Barely there.

But it might as well be a lightning strike.

Your breath stalls. Eyes catch. And for a beat too long, you’re both completely still.

His hand stays on yours.

Neither of you speak.

The moment hovers, thick and quiet, like the breath before a confession.

And you can’t take it.

You laugh—too loud, too fast—and turn away, pretending the bloom of heat under your skin isn’t from him.

“I’m retiring from the kitchen,” you joke, shaking off the silence. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted near appliances.”

Drew smiles, but it lingers slower this time, a little softer. “Guess that makes me head chef. Hope you like cereal.”

You smile back, letting the moment dissolve like sugar in tea.

But when he passes you the syrup, your fingers graze—and neither of you pulls away right away.

The weeks blend together after that. Routines settle in quietly, like they were always meant to be there. Shared mugs in the cabinet. His hoodies folded into your laundry. Your shampoo in the shower next to his, your snacks hidden behind the cereal boxes he swears are sacred.

You stop counting the days. And so does he.

The cast still teases you both—but now it’s gentle, like they’ve decided this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t need labeling. Like maybe it’s obvious.

Tonight, the apartment smells like sandalwood and yesterday’s pizza. Filming ran late. Your limbs ache from sun and repetition and adrenaline. You’d both crashed on the couch, limbs draped over each other without thought.

His arm is wrapped low around your waist, steady, grounding.

Your head rests on his chest, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing, soft against the static of the TV. His sweatshirt smells like detergent and skin. His legs are tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

The movie’s long over. The credits have faded. Outside, the sky is bleeding pale pink through the curtains.

You should move. You know you should.

But the shape of you against him feels too easy. Too much like home.

You open your eyes slowly, adjusting to the light. His jaw is the first thing you see—clean lines, soft in sleep. Lashes fanned against his cheek. One hand still rests at your hip, fingers curved gently like they belong there.

You trace him with your eyes, careful not to move. Every breath deepens the ache in your chest, that quiet, persistent pull you’ve stopped pretending not to feel.

Then—he shifts.

Just a little. Barely conscious. His hand tightens at your waist. A slow exhale warms your forehead.

His voice, when it comes, is scratchy and half-asleep.

“This is nice.”

You freeze. Then nod, your cheek brushing his chest. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

Neither of you moves.

Not for a long time.

The sun climbs higher. And when you finally drift off again, curled tighter into his side, there are no dreams.

You don’t need them.

You’re already there.

The day is hot, the kind of southern heat that clings to your skin like humidity and sunburn. The set is between takes, the crew scattered like lazy shadows across grass and folding chairs. Someone’s blasting a speaker. Chase and Rudy toss a football like they haven’t been sweating for hours in full costume.

You’re half-asleep on a picnic blanket, legs outstretched, head tucked against Drew’s shoulder. You don’t remember when it happened—just that he was next to you, and then you were there, leaning into him like your body remembered what your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

His arm is around you. Protective. Unmoving.

He’s asleep too.

You’re both still when JD walks by with his camera. He never stops taking pictures. You’re used to it now. You barely register the click.

It isn’t until hours later—after the scene is wrapped, your wardrobe changed, and your phone vibrates five times in a row—that you notice.

The post.

JD’s photo.

“The cutest nap I’ve ever seen.”

You and Drew, tangled in sleep. Your head tucked into his shoulder, his hand on your arm. Golden hour casting everything soft and slow and tender.

The internet explodes.

“THEY’RE DATING I KNEW IT.”

“Roommates?? Yeah right.”

“This is the slow burn I’ve been waiting for.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Your phone buzzes again. And again.

And then—Drew’s voice. Low. Calm.

“You good?”

He crouches in front of you, brows drawn as you hold your phone out in silence.

He reads. Scrolls. Grins.

“They think we’re dating now,” you murmur, pulse racing.

He tilts his head. “They’ll think what they want.”

You wait for him to say more.

He doesn’t.

You could clarify. Say we’re just friends.

But you don’t.

Because what you felt when you saw that photo—what you’re still feeling now—isn’t panic. It’s a quiet thrum of recognition. Like the world saw something true before you had the words for it.

Drew watches you with an unreadable expression, somewhere between fondness and something more.

And this time, when someone teases you about it, you laugh.

But you don’t deny it.

Not anymore.

The party’s already alive by the time you arrive, tucked into the backyard of a rented beach house where the salty breeze tangles through citronella smoke and laughter. The night air hums with energy — music pulses from a half-open sliding door, drifting through the glow of string lights draped between palm trees like glowing constellations lazily flung across the sky. The faint crash of waves in the distance is a constant hush beneath it all.

Someone’s cranked up a speaker — almost definitely Rudy — loud enough to rattle the fence and earn a few glares from neighboring porches. The whole place feels like a breathless kind of summer, suspended in that golden blur between sunset and too late.

You step into the rhythm of it easily.

A half-dozen voices call your name, familiar faces grinning over red cups and half-empty seltzer cans. Madison finds you first, practically bouncing in her sandals as she throws an arm around your shoulders and presses a cold can into your hand.

“There she is,” she says, squeezing you with dramatic flair. “I was about two minutes away from sending a search party.”

You grin, the knot in your chest loosening slightly. “You know I wouldn’t miss this.”

She pulls you toward the fire pit, where JD and Austin are halfway through a heated argument about whether karaoke should be mandatory at every wrap party. You laugh at something Chase mutters under his breath, dodge Rudy dancing with a drink in each hand like a walking hazard, and let the scene fold around you — warm, bright, familiar.

It should feel easy.

It does, until it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through your second drink when you see him — Drew — across the yard, leaned casually against the edge of the deck. He’s framed by the spill of porch light and shadows, tall and unmistakable even in the half-dark. A drink dangles from his fingers, condensation sliding down the glass. He’s smiling.

Talking to a girl.

She’s tall, tan, hair spilling down her back like sun-bleached silk. Pretty in that effortless, sunkissed way. Her laugh rings high and sweet, and she tilts into him like he’s gravity. Her fingers brush his arm — light, teasing.

He doesn’t step back.

Your heart stutters, then twists. A slow, sinking feeling starts in your stomach, unfamiliar but sharp.

You look away too late.

Madison, beside you, catches your shift in focus and lifts a brow. “You good?” she asks, not unkindly — but there’s an edge to her voice, enough to snap you out of it.

“Yeah,” you lie, mouth pulling into a smile that feels flimsy. “Just zoning out.”

She follows your gaze, hums under her breath. “Ah. That kind of zoning.”

You glance at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she says too fast. “Just… interesting view.”

You roll your eyes and pretend to laugh, turning back toward the fire. But the flicker of heat on your skin doesn’t quite reach your chest. Not where it’s tight. Not where the image of Drew leaning toward someone else keeps replaying like a scene you didn’t want to see.

You know you shouldn’t care.

You really do.

But you can’t stop the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your can, like gripping something will keep you steady.

Later, inside the house, you sink into the edge of the couch, shoulders curled in, the room moving around you in a soft blur of music and muffled conversation. Your drink’s long gone, forgotten somewhere near the fire pit, and your hands are wrapped around a throw blanket like it might hold you together.

You’re trying — really trying — not to replay the moment in your head. But it plays anyway, over and over. Her laugh. His smile.

The couch shifts beside you.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him.

Drew drops down with a low sigh, the kind that says he’s done pretending the party is still fun. You feel the warmth of him instantly, the heat that rolls off his skin, the way his knee nearly brushes yours.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You keep your eyes forward. “Hey.”

He hands you a bottle of water, the condensation cold against your palm. You take it, sip without speaking.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, too fast. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel it — the way he’s watching you, his arm draped across the back of the couch, not touching but close. Too close for you to keep pretending nothing’s wrong.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says after a beat. “That’s not like you.”

You force a shrug. “Just tired.”

His brow lifts. “Tired, huh.”

You glance sideways, catching the faintest curve of a smirk — soft, not teasing. But when you don’t answer, it fades into something more serious.

“Is this about earlier?”

You freeze.

“What?”

“The girl,” he says. “From outside.”

You hesitate, trying to sound casual. “Why would it be?”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Because you haven’t looked at me since.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“She was someone the sound guy brought. Visiting from Wilmington. Thought I was one of the producers or something. I don’t even think she knew my name.”

You glance at him, jaw tense. “You didn’t exactly push her away.”

He meets your eyes now, and there’s something steady there. “Did I need to?”

The question lands between you, quiet and loaded.

You set the bottle down slowly. “I didn’t like it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Not a confession, but close.

Drew doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, just as softly, he says, “I know.”

You turn toward him. “Then why pretend there’s nothing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s been holding this in for days. “Because I don’t know what this is yet.”

Your heart kicks up. “Neither do I.”

“But it’s something, right?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah. It is.”

His knee brushes yours, this time on purpose.

“Then maybe we stop pretending it’s not,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze, everything else fading — the music, the voices, the party.

But you don’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just whisper, “Okay.”

His fingers graze yours, light and deliberate, a silent promise made in the hush between words.

And somehow, that feels like enough. For now.

The set was hushed, golden light pouring through the windows like honey as the late afternoon slid toward evening. Equipment clinked in the background, the soft shuffle of crew adjusting camera angles, murmured direction just out of earshot.

You stood across from Drew in the center of the room, script limp in your hand — mostly forgotten. The scene was simple. A kiss. One line, one beat, one cue.

But the air was thick with everything unspoken.

Drew was already looking at you — not like a co-star, not like a scene partner. Like he was watching for something he wasn’t sure you’d give. There was a flicker of nerves in his eyes, buried under the calm, and it mirrored the way your stomach twisted.

“Ready?” the director called.

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

He stepped in.

The distance between you vanished, dissolved into the warmth of his palms as they settled gently on your waist. Your breath caught. He smelled like clean cotton and something faintly citrus, familiar and grounding. His fingers flexed once.

“Action.”

The kiss started soft — almost tentative, like he was afraid to startle you. Then it deepened, slow and intentional. His hand moved, thumb brushing your side. The rest of the world — the cameras, the lights, the people — dropped away.

There was only this.

When the director called cut, it felt like waking up from something too sweet to last.

You pulled back, breath shaky, heart pounding in your chest like a drum.

“That was perfect,” someone said, but it barely registered.

Drew was still looking at you. “You okay?” His voice was rough, lower than usual.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah.”

But it didn’t feel like acting.

Your fingers brushed when you reached for your things. He didn’t move away.

Something had changed.

And it wasn’t just the scene.

The hilltop clearing was quiet beneath a canopy of stars, the kind that only came out full after the rain — sharp and endless. The air was cool, clean, and carried the scent of wet earth and pine. Drew’s truck rumbled to a stop at the top of the path, headlights casting long shadows across the open field.

Neither of you spoke as you climbed out. The world around you felt too sacred, like even whispering might break it.

He laid the blanket down in a practiced motion, and you sank onto it beside him, shoulders brushing. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full — stretched wide like the sky, heavy with possibility.

Finally, he turned toward you.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, eyes shining even in the dark.

You nodded.

He exhaled, like this had been sitting on his chest for a long, long time.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words didn’t echo. They settled.

“I didn’t plan it,” he continued. “It just… happened. Somewhere between late-night drives and the way you always know what I need. And maybe I tried not to let it show, but I can’t keep pretending this is just friendship anymore.”

You didn’t say anything right away — because you felt it. All of it.

Then you leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It was a slow exhale. A door opening. His hand found your jaw. Yours slid into his hair. It was soft, real, built from a thousand little moments that had always been leading here.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered, forehead resting against his.

And just like that — with stars above and hearts finally bare — everything felt different.

Not uncertain.

Just right.

No Overtaking Allowed

drew starkey x actress!reader

a/n: ngl this is not my best work. i also dont know much about f1 so all of the information in here was provided by my boyfriend and google so im sorry if something is wrong 😭

The sun spilled like molten gold over the Monaco harbor, turning the water into something unreal. Everything shimmered. The air buzzed with salt, champagne, and the kind of money that made your teeth ache if you looked at it too long. You stood on the private terrace of a luxury suite above the famous street circuit, arms loosely crossed, trying not to let the glamor make your eyes roll too far back in your head.

“I feel underdressed,” you muttered, watching a woman glide by in head-to-toe Dior, balancing a tiny espresso in one hand and a Yorkie in the other like it was nothing.

Drew stood behind you, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands tucked in his pockets like he wasn’t currently surrounded by some of the richest people on Earth. “You’re wearing custom Louis Vuitton.”

“Exactly. Custom. Someone had to design me into this setting. That woman just woke up and manifested wealth.”

He laughed, warm and low. “You look incredible.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him. “Don’t try to distract me with compliments.”

“I’m not distracting. I’m stating facts.”

“Mm. Convenient how your facts always make me feel hotter.”

“That’s just science, babe.”

You gave a short laugh and leaned against the railing. Below, the circuit looked impossibly narrow, like a dare wrapped in steel and asphalt. Pit crews and media buzzed around the grid, the last few minutes of calm before the thunder.

“Remind me again why we’re pretending this is safe?” you asked.

Drew moved closer until his arm brushed yours. “Because pretending is more fun.”

“You say that like someone who’s never had a tire fly at their head.”

“I mean, not yet.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“That’s what keeps it spicy.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek. You didn’t lean away.

The sound of engines building swallowed any reply. Your gaze snapped downward as the cars lined up. One by one, the lights went out and the start exploded in a rush of sound and velocity. They tore through Sainte Devote like missiles.

“Two-stop rule this year,” you said over the roar. “Love that they tried to manufacture excitement with tire math.”

Drew tilted his head. “The what rule?”

You smiled. “Two mandatory pit stops. They’re hoping it’ll force more strategy, maybe shake up the order. It’s Monaco though, so basically still a parade.”

Drew smirked. “You know way too much about this.”

“It’s called having hobbies.”

He squinted at the screen overhead. “Which car is ours again?”

You laughed. “We don’t have one, babe. We’re neutral spectators. But if you mean who I’d pick—Ferrari, obviously.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Because… the red’s fast?”

“They’re not even leading this season.”

“But they look good?”

You gave him a look. “That’s like saying a guy’s a good actor because he’s tall.”

“…Okay, I deserved that.”

You smiled, eyes flicking back to the screen. When one of the Ferraris clipped the barrier near the tunnel, you flinched and Drew’s arm circled your waist.

“You good?”

“Heart’s racing.”

He tilted closer. “Mine too. Though that might just be you.”

You snorted, resting your hand over his. For a while, neither of you said much. Just watched.

When the checkered flag waved and the crowd roared for Lando Norris, you let out a low whistle.

“Well,” you said. “Guess I owe someone a drink. Again.”

“Told you he was due.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“Sure I do. It’s like betting. Eventually the guy has to win.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

Drew beamed like he’d just won a bet.

The paddock buzzed with post-race chaos. Photographers darted through teams, glittering PR reps barked into headsets, and mechanics began the slow teardown. You and Drew walked side by side, fingers brushing.

You were halfway to hospitality when someone called out.

“Drew?”

You turned just as Anya Taylor-Joy appeared, somehow untouched by the oppressive heat and humidity. She looked impossibly cool in a flowing white dress and oversized sunglasses, not a single strand of hair out of place.

She pulled Drew into a quick hug before turning to you with a grin.

“And my favorite person.”

You smirked. “You only say that because I promised you early access to the new Knives Out movie.”

She gasped, clutching her chest in mock betrayal. “How dare you accuse me of being both manipulative and correct.”

Drew let out a quiet laugh beside you. “She’s got a point.”

You turned to him with a raised brow. “Whose side are you on?”

“Whoever brings snacks to the screening,” he said, deadpan.

Anya nodded approvingly. “See, this is why I like him.”

The banter flowed easily, the three of you falling into a familiar rhythm. You’d met Anya a few times on set visits, and always appreciated her quick wit and easy charm. Drew stood comfortably between you both, that relaxed glint in his eye that only showed up when he wasn’t on.

A few minutes later, you glanced toward the crowd and took a step back. “I think I’m gonna wander a bit.”

Drew looked over, brow furrowing. “You sure? We just got here.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I just need to move. People-watch. Breathe a little.”

He studied you for a beat. “Stay close.”

“I’ll be in yelling distance,” you promised, already easing into the flow of the crowd.

“Text me if anyone gives you a hard time,” he called after you.

You tossed a smirk over your shoulder. “Only if it’s a pack of wild drivers. Or Cate Blanchett.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. “Noted.”

You wandered toward one of the temporary bars. The crowd had thinned a little, but the energy was still thick. It wasn’t long before someone stepped into your path.

“Excuse me,” a British voice said. “I hope this isn’t weird, but were you in Glass Onion?”

You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall driver, hair damp from his helmet, smile confident but not too polished.

“Yeah,” you said, surprised. “That was me.”

“I knew it. You were brilliant. I watched it on a flight last month.”

Another driver appeared beside him. Shorter, blond, with that unmistakable grin you’d seen a dozen times during podium interviews.

“You were in Anyone But You too, right?”

“Guilty.”

“Love that movie. Got me through a breakup, honestly.”

“Then you have great taste in both film and emotional survival.”

He laughed and extended a hand. “I’m Oscar.”

The first one added, “And I’m Lando. Big fans.”

“Well I would be wrong if I said I didn’t know who you guys were already” you said

You shook both hands, cheeks warming a little. The conversation stayed light. They asked where you were from, how long you were in Monaco. You mentioned your love for the sport, and Lando perked up.

“You follow F1, then?”

“Since I was a teenager. I’ve got a soft spot for the older races—Senna, Prost, Schumacher. But the new kids are growing on me.”

Oscar laughed. “Even Lando?”

“I tolerate him,” you teased.

Lando gave a mock-wounded look. “Harsh.”

“Well, if your boyfriend ditches you again, we’d be happy to give you the grand tour.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Do all the grand tours include flirting or is that a special Monaco feature?”

Lando smirked. “Only when the guests are movie stars.”

Before you could fire back, a familiar voice cut in.

“She’s not stranded.”

You turned as Drew appeared beside you, one hand already slipping around your waist. His smile was tight, eyes sharp beneath the sunglasses. He didn’t look at you first—he looked at Lando.

“I just got caught up for a minute.”

Lando nodded, clearly sensing the shift. “Lucky guy.”

Drew’s hand flexed at your waist. “Luckier than they know.”

Oscar lifted a hand. “See you around.”

You waited until they walked away before looking up at Drew.

“That was subtle.”

He looked down at you, brows drawn just slightly. “You were trying to disappear.”

“I was being polite.”

“And they were flirting.”

“Little bit.”

“You were smiling.”

“They were charming.”

He gave you a look. “You’re not allowed to know that much about racing and be hot. It’s too dangerous.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Jealous?”

“Not even pretending I’m not.”

“Relax. I’ve got a soft spot for actors who learn what a chicane is just to impress me.”

“Is that what I’m doing now?”

You smiled. “Trying very hard.”

You kissed him, slow and certain. The paddock faded out around you. Just for a second.

When you pulled back, he didn’t even try to hide his grin.

“You ever going to get tired of kissing me in public?”

“Not if you keep showing up right on time.”

He slid his fingers between yours and pulled you gently toward the exit.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go celebrate. And the fact that I didn’t actually have to fight anyone today.”

“Yet,” you said.

He grinned. “Yet.”

You walked together through the Monaco chaos, golden light painting everything around you. And for once, all that noise felt quiet. Just for the two of you.

PAIRING: college!drew x bsf!reader

SUMMARY:

It was supposed to be simple — just a weekend away. Just a favor for a friend.

But then came the red dress, the shared bed, and one night that changes everything.

Now, the lines are blurring faster than either of them expected. What started as pretend starts to feel real… and in the quiet fallout, they’re left wondering: Was Nashville a one-time mistake—or the beginning of everything?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: and finally got to the moment that will change everything between them.

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI

masterlist | series masterlist

The drive back to the Airbnb is quiet, but it isn’t empty. The air between you and Drew hums with something fragile, something unspoken that neither of you dares break.

His hand grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. At the red light, he glances over at you. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. You catch it out of the corner of your eye and don’t look away, even though you pretend not to notice. Your heart thuds hard against your ribs, pounding like a secret you can’t keep.

The house is dark and soft when you step inside. The low hum of leftover energy lingers, almost tangible in the air. Bennett is sprawled on the couch, head resting on the armrest, breathing even and deep. Jason is slumped in a beanbag, half-asleep, one leg twitching occasionally. Somewhere nearby, a beer bottle clinks softly as it rolls across the hardwood floor. Ava’s laughter drifts from the kitchen—still wearing her makeup, teasing Landon about something ridiculous, their voices light and warm.

Drew drops his keys in the bowl on the entry table, standing close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him.

“We got the last wave,” he says quietly.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Bathroom first?”

“Yeah. You go ahead.”

You slip inside and close the door gently behind you. The quiet click feels loud in the small space. You stand there for a moment, hands resting on the cold marble counter, heart still racing.

The red dress is tight against your skin, the fabric warm and wrinkled, a reminder of the night’s weight and tension. You stare at yourself in the mirror—at the way your eyes look a little bigger, a little softer—and exhale slowly.

You peel off the dress, each inch feeling like shedding a layer of everything you’ve been holding back. The tension. The anticipation. The question marks you haven’t dared voice.

You don’t bother with pajamas. Instead, you slip into a black oversized band tee—soft, worn-in cotton that falls just to the tops of your thighs. No shorts, no bra—just the gentle fabric against your still-warm skin. The memory of Drew’s eyes, sharp and lingering on you all night, sends a thrilling tingle down your spine, making your pulse quicken.

You wipe off your makeup, fingers brushing over your lips, and run your hands through your hair. Then you breathe.

When you come out, Drew is sitting on the edge of the bed, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. His head turns toward you, and this time, it doesn’t turn away.

His eyes sweep over you—slow, deliberate. The way they linger at the hem of your shirt, tracing the bare skin of your legs—it’s like heat itself has taken form. His throat bobs nervously.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice low and rough. “You’re... seriously comfortable?”

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “It’s just a T-shirt, not lingerie.”

He gives a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It’s a crime. Seriously.” He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Alright, my turn.”

He stands, brushing past you. His chest is bare where the shirt hangs open, fingers twitching—like he wants to reach out but holds himself back. The bathroom door closes with a sharp click.

You slide under the covers, feeling the warmth settle around your skin—not just from the room, but from everything simmering beneath the surface. The TV flickers with a dating show playing in the background—some pointless contest with no stakes.

The bathroom door opens again.

You don’t have to look. You can feel it—the shift in the air, the quiet falling over the room as Drew crosses the floor barefoot.

Still, you turn your head.

He wears nothing but black athletic shorts and the thin chain that always rests just below his collarbone. His damp hair is tousled, and his eyes lock on yours already.

“Found something to watch?” he asks quietly, pulling back the comforter on his side.

“Just background noise,” you say. “It’s terrible.”

“Perfect.”

The bed dips as he slides under the covers, his presence sending a faint ripple through the mattress that reaches you. Your bodies lie side by side but not quite touching, the space between you pulsing with a tension that seems to thrum beneath your skin.

You shift, the thin sheet slipping down your hip as your bare leg brushes his, the faintest contact of skin meeting skin.

He freezes.

Your breath catches in your throat, pulse spiking as heat floods your cheeks. The simple, accidental touch is enough to light every nerve in your body. The air feels thick, charged, as if the whole room is holding its breath.

“Too hot for pants?” you murmur, your voice soft, smoky, testing him.

His eyes lock on yours, dark and unreadable, but the hitch in his breath betrays him. “Too hot for a lot of things,” he rasps, his voice low, gravelly, weighted with restraint.

A long beat passes. A moment where neither of you moves, but the air seems to hum with expectation.

Then he turns toward you, the sheet rustling as his body shifts, bringing his mouth a breath away from yours. His lips hover, so close you can almost taste him.

“You good?” he asks, his voice a whisper, rough around the edges.

You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “You?”

His jaw clenches, a flicker of something dark and raw flashing in his eyes. “Not even close.”

Your breath stutters, heart racing as though it’s trying to escape your chest. You lean in, hesitant but drawn by the pull between you, your lips brushing his—light, testing.

The touch ignites something in him.

His hand slides up the back of your neck, threading into your hair, pulling you closer with a low groan. The kiss deepens, his lips parting yours, his tongue tracing yours in a slow, hungry sweep that makes your toes curl. The sound you make—a soft gasp mixed with a needy whimper—seems to drive him over the edge.

His body presses closer, his bare skin hot against yours, the friction of his shorts against your hip drawing a shiver from you. When your leg shifts higher, brushing firmly against the hard length straining against his waistband, he lets out a low, broken curse.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, his voice ragged, lips dragging along your jaw.

You smile breathlessly against his mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip. “If I were, you’d die happy,” you whisper, daring him to lose control.

A rough laugh vibrates in his chest as he drags his hand down your back, fingers pressing into your skin, his control slipping. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper, lips grazing his earlobe, sending a shiver racing through him.

That’s the last straw.

He kisses you again, harder this time, desperate, his hands roaming over your body like he’s starved for the feel of you. His fingers slip under your shirt, skimming along your ribcage, thumbs brushing the soft underside of your breasts. His mouth is hot and demanding, claiming yours with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your neck, lips trailing along your pulse point, tasting your skin. “You feel so damn good.”

“Then stop thinking,” you whisper, your voice shaking with need, “and feel.”

With a low growl, he pulls your shirt over your head, baring you to his gaze. His eyes darken, breath catching as he takes you in. He bends to kiss the curve of your breast, his lips warm and wet, tongue circling the peak until you gasp, arching into him. His hands skim lower, gripping your hips, grinding against you as if he can’t get close enough.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and urgent, lips brushing your skin with every word.

You tangle your fingers in the chain around his neck, tugging him closer, your voice breaking as you whisper, “Don’t stop.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

Your shorts are gone in a heartbeat, his following, leaving you bare against each other. His mouth finds yours again, devouring your moans as he presses you into the mattress, the heat between you a live wire. You gasp when his hand slides between your thighs, his fingers teasing you, drawing slickness from you that makes him groan into your mouth.

“Jesus, you’re so wet for me,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and uneven. “I’m not going to last if you keep looking at me like that.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, the heady mix of anticipation and desperation swirling in your veins. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “I don’t want you to.”

With a shaky breath, he lines himself up, his hand trembling slightly as he guides himself into you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch, the heat of him making you gasp and cling to him. His forehead presses against yours, your breaths mingling as he sinks deeper, his voice breaking on your name.

“Look at me,” he says again, his voice wrecked, barely holding it together.

You do.

His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, each one sending sparks of pleasure coiling low in your belly. Your nails rake down his back, your hips arching into his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the release building with every movement.

The pace quickens, his control unraveling as your name spills from his lips, a broken prayer. You feel yourself tighten around him, your climax building fast, hot and sharp.

When you fall apart, body shuddering and breath breaking into his mouth, he groans deep and follows, his release pulsing through him in hard, shuddering waves. He holds you close, bodies locked together, arms tightening as if he could imprint you into his skin.

Afterward, you collapse into the sheets, breathless, skin damp and slick with sweat, your limbs tangled in a messy sprawl. He tucks you against his chest, his hand tracing slow, lazy circles along your spine, the weight of him grounding you as your heart slows.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your hair, his voice low and rough, but softened with something almost reverent.

You nod, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “More than okay.”

You lie there, the world outside the bedroom fading to nothing but the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. His arms tighten around you as though he could keep you there forever.

And for once, you let yourself believe he would.