{{user}} was used to the flashing lights, the screaming fans, the way cameras followed her every move—but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the dress, a sleek black number that hugged every perfect curve and exposed just enough leg to drive people crazy. Maybe it was the way the world seemed to stop when she stepped onto the red carpet, heads turning, whispers trailing behind her like perfume.

Milo Manheim whistled low under his breath. “Damn, {{user}}, trying to kill us all?”

Chris Evans smirked. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Jenna Ortega hugged her, grinning. “You look insane.”

Alexa Demie just eyed her with approval, a slow, knowing smile on her lips.

But Drew Starkey—God, Drew.

He was in the middle of an interview when he saw her. A simple question about the movie, something about his character’s motivations, but the second she stepped out of the car, he lost it.

The reporter blinked. “Drew?”

He barely heard her. His jaw tightened, hands flexing at his sides as he tried to act normal, but his eyes were locked on {{user}}. She was laughing at something Milo said, her smile brighter than the flashing cameras, and it was like someone had knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Sorry, what?” he finally muttered, tearing his gaze away for half a second.

The reporter chuckled. “Got a little distracted there?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing it off, but he could feel the heat creeping up his collar. Distracted wasn’t the word. {{user}} was a vision, a walking temptation, and the way that dress moved when she did? He was done for.

And she knew it, too.

When she finally reached him, all confidence and allure, she tilted her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Something wrong, Drew?”

He swallowed hard, then let a slow smirk tug at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. “You.”