The first mistake you made was downloading Raya.

The second was opening it at one in the morning after two glasses of wine and a long travel day.

And the third—easily the worst—was accidentally swiping right on Patrick Dempsey.

You froze the second his profile appeared on your screen.

It was simple. Almost annoyingly normal. A black-and-white photo, another one at a racetrack in racing gear, one with a coffee mug and his dog. His bio only said: Actor. Racing. Coffee. Trying to figure life out.

You stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds before muttering, “Absolutely not.”

Because this was Patrick Dempsey. McDreamy. Your teenage obsession. The reason fourteen-year-old you thought emotionally unavailable men with pretty eyes were romantic.

There was no universe where Patrick Dempsey would ever swipe right on you.

Sure, you were successful. You had built a solid reputation as a journalist and interviewer. You attended film festivals, sports events, fashion launches and award ceremonies for work. But Patrick Dempsey still belonged to that category of celebrity that didn’t quite feel real.

You meant to swipe left.

Instead, your thumb slipped.

The screen flashed instantly.

It’s a match.

Your entire body went still.

“Oh my God.”

You stared at your phone in genuine horror before dropping it face-first onto the bed like it had personally betrayed you. For the next ten minutes you seriously considered deleting the app entirely out of embarrassment.

Eventually, you convinced yourself to calm down. It didn’t matter. Men like Patrick Dempsey probably matched with hundreds of people. He likely wouldn’t even notice your profile among the endless stream of actresses, models and influencers flooding the app.

By morning, you had almost managed to forget about it.

Almost.

Monaco during Grand Prix weekend was complete madness. The entire city buzzed with expensive energy—luxury cars crawling through narrow streets, yachts crowding the harbor, celebrities moving in packs while photographers hovered nearby hoping for one good shot.

You were halfway through your second coffee during the media briefing when your editor handed over the updated celebrity interview schedule.

You skimmed through the names lazily until your eyes landed on one entry.

Patrick Dempsey.

Your stomach dropped so fast it was almost embarrassing.

“Oh, you’ve got him around five,” your editor said casually while checking her phone. “Apparently he’s lovely. Should be an easy interview.”

Lovely.

That somehow made things worse.

The entire afternoon became a blur after that. Back in your hotel suite, clothes were scattered everywhere while you tried to decide what counted as “professional but effortless” without looking like you had clearly overthought the outfit.

You eventually settled on an ivory satin blouse tucked into black tailored trousers with minimal jewelry and soft makeup. Clean. Elegant. Safe.

Definitely not chosen because Patrick Dempsey might look at you.

By the time you arrived at the VIP hospitality area near the paddock, the atmosphere was already electric. Music drifted through the open terraces overlooking the marina while waiters moved around carrying champagne trays. The air smelled faintly of sunscreen, expensive perfume and overheated engines.

Your earlier interviews went smoothly enough. Years in journalism had trained you to stay calm around famous people. You could interview Oscar winners and athletes without blinking.

But the second a producer leaned over and quietly said, “Patrick’s ready for you,” every ounce of composure threatened to disappear.

You turned toward the interview setup and immediately understood why the internet lost its mind over that man.

Black suit. White shirt slightly open at the collar. Sunglasses hooked loosely into one hand. The late afternoon Monaco sunlight caught the silver threaded through his hair and suddenly he looked less like an actor and more like someone designed in a laboratory to make women nervous.

As you approached him, your heel caught slightly against the flooring.

Not enough to fully stumble.

But enough.

Before you could properly recover, Patrick instinctively reached out and steadied your arm lightly. “You okay there?” he asked, smiling in a way that felt unfairly warm.

You let out a breathy laugh, immediately embarrassed. “Yeah. Totally fine. Just trying to make a memorable first impression.”

That made him laugh softly. “Well now I feel better because I was nervous too.”

You blinked at him. “You were nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted easily. “You’re the journalist. You ask the scary questions.”

Something about the way he said it instantly relaxed you.

The cameras started rolling a moment later and somehow the interview flowed naturally almost immediately. Patrick was surprisingly easy to talk to. He didn’t give polished media-trained answers or try too hard to sound charming. If anything, he seemed more comfortable discussing racing than acting.

The second the conversation shifted toward endurance driving and Le Mans, his entire face lit up. “There’s something really grounding about racing,” he explained thoughtfully. “When you’re driving, nothing else exists for a while. You can’t think about life or stress or anything outside the car because if you do, you lose focus.”

You nodded. “That actually sounds therapeutic.”

“It is,” he said with a small smile. “Probably cheaper than therapy too.”

At one point you admitted that your only fast-driving experience ended with you nearly crying in the passenger seat during a Ferrari experience in Dubai. Patrick laughed so hard he leaned forward slightly in his chair.

“That bad?”

“I genuinely saw my ancestors,” you deadpanned. “The driver kept yelling ‘isn’t this fun?’ while I was preparing to meet God.”

He laughed properly then—not the polite celebrity laugh people fake during interviews, but a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

And after that, the conversation became easy.

Really easy.

You spoke about travel, Monaco, race weekends, jet lag and how strange it was constantly living out of hotel rooms. Patrick listened carefully when you spoke instead of just waiting for his turn to answer, which felt surprisingly rare.

When the interview wrapped, he thanked every crew member individually before standing up.

“That was fun,” he said sincerely while unclipping his mic.

“It was,” you admitted.

“You made it easy.”

And annoyingly enough, that small sentence stayed with you long after he walked away.

By evening, Monaco transformed completely. The sporty daytime energy melted into glamour as terraces filled with celebrities, executives and drivers dressed in black tie while music echoed through the harbor.

After finishing your final segment for the night, you escaped outside onto one of the quieter balconies attached to the hotel ballroom. You needed a moment away from people, cameras and conversations.

The sea breeze cooled your skin instantly as you leaned against the railing with a champagne flute in hand, staring out at the yachts below.

For the first time all day, you finally relaxed.

“You disappeared.”

The familiar voice behind you made your stomach flip immediately.

You turned and found Patrick standing there with his suit jacket gone and his sleeves rolled slightly to his forearms. His tie had disappeared somewhere too, leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should not have been attractive but unfortunately was.

“Oh,” you said intelligently.

He smiled. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Patrick stepped beside you at the railing, glancing briefly toward the water before looking back at you. Up close without cameras around, he seemed calmer somehow. Less polished. More real.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then he smiled slightly and said, “You seem less nervous now.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

“A little.”

“That’s deeply embarrassing.”

“No, it was actually kind of flattering.”

You looked at him suspiciously. “Why?"

“Because I don’t think people usually get nervous around me anymore.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing softly. “Patrick, you were literally everyone’s crush.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It was. Grey’s Anatomy permanently damaged an entire generation of women.”

That made him grin. “And you?”

You took a sip of champagne before answering honestly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

His smile widened slowly, clearly amused by your embarrassment now. “So that’s why you almost tripped earlier.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m putting the pieces together.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“A little,” he admitted.

The conversation drifted naturally after that. You talked about travel schedules, the strange loneliness of constantly being surrounded by people and how events like Monaco could feel glamorous and exhausting at the same time.

At one point Patrick leaned against the railing beside you and said quietly, “People think these events are exciting every second of the day, but honestly sometimes they feel strangely lonely.”

Something about the honesty in his voice caught your attention.

“You seem good at hiding it,” you admitted softly.

“That’s part of the job.”

The answer sat quietly between you for a moment.

Without cameras and interviews around him, Patrick felt unexpectedly grounded. Warm. Funny in a very natural way. There was no performance to him.

And somehow that made him even more attractive.

A breeze lifted a few strands of your hair across your face and before you could move them yourself, Patrick reached over instinctively and tucked them gently behind your ear.

The movement was small.

Careless almost.

But the second his fingers brushed your skin, the atmosphere shifted.

Neither of you moved immediately afterward.

Patrick looked at you for a second longer than necessary before suddenly exhaling a small laugh under his breath.

“What?” you asked quietly.

He rubbed the back of his neck slightly, almost sheepish now. “Okay, this is either going to sound smooth or incredibly embarrassing.”

“That’s already a bad start.”

He laughed softly. “I know you from somewhere else.”

Your stomach dropped instantly.

Patrick noticed your expression immediately and smiled. “Not in a creepy way, I swear.”

“Oh this keeps getting worse.”

“I saw you on Raya.”

Heat rushed straight to your face so fast it physically hurt.

“Oh my God.”

“There it is,” he said, laughing now. “That reaction confirms it.”

You covered your face briefly with one hand. “Can we pretend this conversation never happened?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

You groaned. “I didn’t even mean to swipe right on you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”

“No wait—that sounds horrible.”

“It really does.”

“You were my childhood crush! I panicked.”

That made him laugh again, softer this time. “Okay, fair.”

“I almost deleted the app afterward.”

“Good,” he replied easily. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”

You looked at him properly then. “Wait… you noticed?”

Patrick leaned slightly against the railing beside you, smiling almost shyly now. “Pretty hard not to notice the journalist I interviewed with six hours later.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

Then after a small pause, he asked quietly, “So it wasn’t an accident?”

The teasing was still there, but softer now. More genuine.

You met his eyes for a second before admitting, “No. Not really.”

Something warm shifted across his expression.

“I’m glad,” he said simply.

The silence afterward didn’t feel awkward.

If anything, it felt comfortable.

Easy.

Hours passed without either of you noticing. The party continued loudly behind you while the two of you stayed tucked away near the balcony railing talking about everything and absolutely nothing.

And somewhere between the champagne, the Monaco lights and Patrick Dempsey smiling at you like you were the only person in the room, he stopped feeling like a celebrity entirely.

He just felt like a man you genuinely liked being around.

Eventually someone from inside called his name and Patrick glanced back reluctantly before looking at you again.

“You busy tomorrow after qualifying?”

Your heart skipped instantly. “I have interviews until four.”

“I can work with four.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“In Monaco?” he said with a grin. “Feels appropriately dramatic.”

You laughed softly before nodding.

“Okay.”

The soft afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains of your cozy home, casting a warm glow over the intimate gathering. Twenty-five cherished souls filled the living room, transformed into a makeshift chapel with white roses and fairy lights strung across the beams. There were a few familiar faces from the Grey's Anatomy cast, your loving family, your childhood friends who had known you since playground days, Patrick's sister beaming with pride, and his children—tall, bright-eyed teens who had taken to you like their own from the moment you entered their lives. They sat in the front row, whispering excitedly as the officiant began.

You stood at the altar, heart pounding, dressed in a simple yet elegant gown that hugged your curves just right. Patrick, ever the picture of timeless charm, faced you in a tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean frame. His blue eyes locked onto yours, filled with a depth of emotion that made the world fade away. The vows came next—yours first, spoken with trembling sincerity about building a life together, cherishing the laughter of his children as your own, and loving him through every script and spotlight.

Patrick's turn arrived, his voice steady but laced with raw feeling. "From the day I met you, you've been my anchor in this chaotic world. I promise to hold you close, to build our dreams side by side, and to love you fiercely, every single day." The words hung in the air like a promise etched in stone. The officiant smiled. "You may now kiss the bride."

He didn't hesitate. Patrick's hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leaned in. His lips met yours in a kiss that started tender—a soft press that deepened into something profound, sealing your union with a spark that ignited the room. Cheers erupted, his children clapping the loudest, but all you felt was him, the taste of his breath mingling with yours.

The reception unfolded in the adjoining dining area, tables laden with homemade dishes: roasted chicken, fresh salads, and a towering cake frosted in vanilla. Laughter echoed as stories were shared—tales of Patrick's on-set mishaps, your family's embarrassing anecdotes, and the kids recounting how you'd won them over with late-night movie marathons. You floated through the crowd, Patrick's arm always finding its way around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. But beneath the joy, a quiet anticipation simmered. This was your wedding day, and the night promised more than just rest.

As the sun dipped lower, casting golden hues across the room, you both stole glances toward the clock. The guests had settled in comfortably—plates refilled, wine glasses clinking, conversations stretching like taffy. Patrick's sister was deep in a debate with a cast member about the best rom-coms, while the kids challenged friends to a impromptu dance-off in the corner. No one showed signs of leaving.

You caught Patrick's eye across the table, where he sat nursing a glass of scotch. His jaw tightened slightly, a playful frustration flickering in his gaze. Leaning close during a lull, his breath warm against your ear, he murmured, "If they don't start heading out in five minutes, I'm picking you up and carrying you straight to the bedroom. I can't wait any longer to make you fully mine."

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, a thrill racing down your spine. You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a smile. The minutes ticked by agonizingly slow. Five became ten, the group only growing more animated. Finally, Patrick stood, his decision made. Without a word, he scooped you into his arms effortlessly, your gown swishing as he cradled you bridal-style. Gasps turned to laughter and whoops from the crowd.

"Sorry, everyone," he called out with a grin, not sounding sorry at all. "The bride and I have some... private vows to exchange." His children rolled their eyes but cheered, waving you off with good-natured ribbing. You buried your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the day's warmth, as he carried you down the hallway to the master bedroom.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the distant sounds of the party. Patrick set you down gently on the edge of the king-sized bed, the room bathed in the soft flicker of candles you'd lit earlier. His eyes roamed over you, dark with desire, but tempered with the tenderness that defined him. "Finally," he whispered, stepping between your legs and tilting your chin up for another kiss.

This one was unhurried, his lips moving against yours with deliberate slowness, savoring every second. His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open to explore deeper, a low hum vibrating from his chest. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric, and you tugged at his tie, loosening it until you could unbutton his shirt.

He shrugged it off, revealing the toned planes of his torso—years of disciplined living etched into every muscle. Your fingers trailed down his abdomen, eliciting a shiver from him. Patrick's hands found the zipper of your gown at the back, pulling it down inch by inch, his knuckles grazing your skin. The fabric pooled at your waist, and he eased it lower, helping you step out until you stood in just your lace lingerie.

"You're breathtaking," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. He knelt before you, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, down to the edge of your panties. But he didn't rush. Instead, he rose slowly, guiding you back onto the bed, his body covering yours in a protective cocoon.

Clothes shed layer by layer—his pants discarded, your bra unclasped with reverent care. Skin met skin, warm and electric. Patrick's mouth trailed from your lips to your neck, sucking gently at the pulse point that made you arch into him. He lavished attention on your collarbone, then lower, capturing one nipple between his lips. His tongue swirled around the hardened peak, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through you, while his hand kneaded the other breast, thumb flicking in rhythm.

You moaned softly, fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper hair, urging him on. He took his time, switching sides, his free hand sliding down your side to hook into your panties. He peeled them away, exposing you completely, and settled between your thighs. His gaze met yours, seeking permission, and you nodded, breathless.

Patrick's fingers parted your folds, stroking with feather-light touches that built the ache inside you. He circled your clit slowly, watching your reactions, learning every gasp and twitch. When he slipped one finger inside, then two, curling them just right, you whimpered his name. He pumped them languidly, his thumb pressing against your sensitive nub, all while his mouth returned to yours, swallowing your cries in deep, soul-stirring kisses.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, his voice a velvet rumble. "Every part of you." He withdrew his fingers, positioning himself at your entrance. His cock, hard and throbbing, nudged against you, but he paused, forehead resting against yours. "Tell me if it's too much."

"It's perfect," you assured him, wrapping your legs around his waist. With a shared breath, he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with exquisite care. The fullness was overwhelming, a perfect union that made tears prick your eyes. He stilled once fully seated, giving you time to adjust, his hands stroking your hair, your arms, anywhere to convey his adoration.

Then, the rhythm began—gentle thrusts, deep and measured, each one drawing out your pleasure like a symphony building to crescendo. Patrick's hips rolled against yours, grinding in a way that hit every sensitive spot. You met him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his back, bodies slick with sweat. His mouth found yours again, kisses turning fervent yet still laced with romance, tongues dancing as intimately as your lower bodies.

The pace remained unhurried, a testament to the love you'd vowed. He shifted angles slightly, deepening the connection, and you felt the coil tighten within you. Patrick's hand slipped between you, fingers resuming their work on your clit, circling with precise pressure. "Come for me, my wife," he urged softly, his own breath hitching as your walls clenched around him.

The orgasm washed over you in waves, slow and all-consuming, your body trembling beneath him. He followed soon after, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot pulses that left you both gasping. He didn't pull away immediately, staying connected, peppering your face with lazy kisses as you came down together.

Wrapped in his arms, the world outside forgotten, you traced patterns on his chest. "Husband," you whispered, the word tasting like forever.