You always told yourself not to get too delusional. Sure, you were Drew Starkey’s biggest fan — the kind who watched every interview, knew his middle name, and secretly had a Pinterest board titled “Starkey Aesthetic.” But meet him? No way.

He was 32 this year, with an entire Hollywood world wrapped around him. You? You’d just turned 27 last month, with a passport, a carry-on, and a round-trip to Brazil to escape real life for a week.

You weren’t looking for magic.

And then it happened.

You were halfway through a lukewarm coffee at Gate A17, scrolling on your phone, when something — someone — stepped into your peripheral vision.

Tired hoodie. Cargo jacket. Baseball cap pulled low.

You didn’t need a full glimpse. You knew.

Drew. Freaking. Starkey.

Right there in the waiting area. Sitting two chairs away from you. Looking at his phone like he wasn’t Drew Starkey, like the entire internet didn’t thirst over his jawline on a daily basis.

You froze.

Brain short-circuited.

Your inner fan screamed.

Your outer self? Struggling to breathe.

Was this real? Did the universe actually line up this perfectly? You weren’t even flying to L.A. You were flying to Brazil. What were the odds?

You peeked again.

Yup. Still him. Still hotter in real life — tall, quiet, and somehow even more magnetic in that low-key, tired-traveler way.

And then — as if the universe hadn’t already lost its mind — he looked up.

Right. At. You.

His eyes locked with yours.

He smiled.

That crooked, sleepy, effortlessly charming smile.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and scratchy from early-morning travel. “Long flight ahead?”

You blinked. Your heart stopped. Words? Gone. Brain? Static.

This couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

And suddenly, the age gap? The fandom? The years of watching him from behind a screen?

None of it mattered.

Not when Drew Starkey just started talking to you like you weren’t a stranger at all.