The Dior show is buzzing—flashes, heels clicking, low hums of fashion people pretending not to care that everyone’s looking. You’re backstage, just out of frame, sipping from a tiny sparkling water bottle that looks stupidly chic for no reason. Brooke’s next to you, holding her clutch like it’s a sword, watching her brother be… well, himself.

Drew’s in front of the camera—your boyfriend, buzzcut sharp as ever, that tiny silver hoop catching the light just right. He’s in those black pants you helped pick out, and that denim top that looks like something between a kung fu uniform and a runway fever dream—somehow making it work because, duh, he’s Drew Starkey and he could wear a paper bag and you’d still feel like passing out.

The interviewer leans in, off-camera voice playful. “Can you describe what your perfect date would look like?”

You elbow Brooke gently. “Wanna bet he says something dumb?”

Brooke smirks. “Always.”

Drew pauses—thinking. You can see it. That cute little forehead wrinkle. Then he looks directly into the camera with that look. “I don’t know, I like surprises,” he says, casual as ever, like he isn’t totally aware you’re right behind the scenes, watching. “But I think a movie has to be involved all the time.”

You raise an eyebrow. Brooke snorts.

“A movie?” you mouth at her. “He fell asleep during Barbie.”

“He’s lying through his teeth,” she whispers.

Then Drew glances off to the side—your side—and you swear he flickers his eyes at you for a split second. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “A movie has to be snuck in there, yeah,” he repeats, smirking.

Brooke’s lips twist up. “He’s totally flirting with you through the camera.”

“Please. That smirk is for me and he knows it.”

The interviewer keeps going: “What type of movie?”

Drew shifts, weight rolling to the other leg, like he’s been practicing this exact movement in front of a mirror. “Ooh, uh, horror. Horror’s a good—uh, date movie, yes.” Another smirk.

You nearly choke on your drink. Horror? HORROR??

“You remember when he screamed during Hereditary?” Brooke whispers.

“Girl he hid behind me,” you say, absolutely wheezing. “And he’s out here acting like he’s Ghostface himself??”

“Men are so unserious.”

Then comes the final question: “Do you prefer to ask someone or to be asked on a date?”

Drew blinks, then tilts his head, eyes flicking up to the left like he’s debating something that will haunt him forever. “I prefer toooo…” he drags it out, thinking like the drama king he is, then grins. “I’ll be asked. Yeah.” He chuckles.

You stare. He knows what he’s doing. That smirk? That pause? That little glance before he said it?

Brooke nudges you with her elbow. “Oh my god. He’s literally begging you to ask him out again.”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “What should I do, text him ‘wanna go see a horror movie tonight and hold my hand like a scared little baby again?’”

“You’d be doing a public service, honestly.”

Before the next question starts, Drew catches your gaze behind the camera—just for a split second. That buzzcut, that smirk, those stupid pretty eyes. He winks. A wink. You gasp.

You mouth: I saw that!

And he mouths back: Ask me out.

The chaos. The audacity. The delusion. And yeah… you’re totally doing it.