You sit at your vanity, pressing an under-eye mask into place. The lamp casts a soft glow on your cheeks. Your hair is still damp from the shower, and your gown from the premiere hangs on a hook nearby. A few small trophies from your Scream Queen wins catch the light, making you smile quietly.

Drew is on the bed, shirtless in shorts, one arm over the pillow, scrolling on his phone. He hums softly, glancing at you with that lazy smirk you love. The room feels warm and quiet, the world outside completely muted.

“Could you get me more of those under-eye masks tomorrow, baby? I’m almost out,” you say, voice soft and tired.

“Yeah, of course,” he murmurs, stretching. “You don’t even need them… you’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Sure, thanks, Mr. Sweet Talker.” A trophy clinks faintly as you glance at it — a reminder of all the screams, awards, and late nights that got you here.

Drew shifts closer, the mattress sighing under him. “You were amazing tonight,” he says. “Red carpet, lights, everyone staring… and you handled it like a pro.”