You’ve watched him for years—Drew, the golden boy of Hollywood, whose smirk could ignite the world. Every role, every red carpet, every interview—you’ve practically memorized them all. But you figure he just sees another face in the sea of fans, doesn't he?

Or so you tell yourself.

The air is electric on the night of the premiere, charged with excitement as you're pressed against the barricade, clutching the glossy poster of his latest film. Of course, you tell yourself not to get your hopes up—he's busy, with cameras flashing, handlers ushering him through—but there he is, standing in front of you. And he is looking right at you.

"Hey," he says, with a voice smooth and sultry. "You want me to sign that?"

You nod, speechless as he grabs the poster from your hands. His finger rubs yours-just a slip, but enough to give you goosebumps. He quickly looks back at you as if he just wrote in bold ink over the letter.

"What's your name?"

Your heart skips. He doesn't even have to ask. He could've signed it and walked away, but he doesn't. When you tell him, his lips curve into a smile, as if he's trying to commit it to memory.

"There you go," he says, handing it back to you. Before you can voice your thanks, he leans in just a little, lowering his voice. "I'll see you inside?"

It catches in your throat; it is nothing and yet a simple question. Still, he sounds as though he were inviting you.

And all at once you are no longer just another fan among the throngs who crowd this place. You are the one who caught his eye, the one who just might even be remembered.