You met Drew Starkey at the worst audition of your life.

The lines got stuck in your throat. You spilled your iced coffee on the casting director’s notes. And to top it off, your left shoe squeaked every time you walked. You were one blink away from a total breakdown when he walked over, smiled like sunshine, and said, “Hey. You’re not bombing. You’re just... memorable.”

That was five years ago.

Now he’s in your kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts, digging through your cereal like he pays rent.

“Why do you only have oat milk?” he complains for the hundredth time.

“Because I’m emotionally evolved and you’re still drinking dairy like a frat boy,” you fire back.

He grins over his shoulder. “Oat milk tastes like if cardboard had feelings.”

You flip him off with love.

This is your normal. Drew, lounging on your couch. Drew, ranting about movies you haven’t seen. Drew, showing up at 2am with takeout when he knows you’re spiraling. Drew, who texts you “you alive?” every time you disappear for more than five hours.

And you? You’ve always been his anchor. The one who reminds him to breathe when fame feels heavy. The one who tells him the truth when everyone else is clapping just to be close to him.

You’ve seen him fall apart in the green room after long days. He’s seen you cry on the bathroom floor with mascara down your cheeks and no words to explain why.

He never asks. He just sits beside you. Quiet. Solid. Safe.

That’s the thing about Drew.

He’s loud on camera, magnetic in every room — but with you, he doesn’t need to perform. He can just be.

Today, you’re on the balcony watching the sun go down. He's beside you, hoodie pulled over his head, drink in hand. There’s music playing low from your speaker — something soft and nostalgic. He bumps his shoulder into yours.

“You ever think we were supposed to meet?”

You raise a brow. “You getting sentimental on me, Starkey?”

He laughs. “Shut up. I’m just saying… you’re the only thing that feels real sometimes.”

Your smile fades just a little. “You feel real to me.”

He looks over, something unspoken in his eyes. But like always, he lets the silence be enough.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says quietly.

And you know he means it.

Not because he said it on Instagram. Not because he tagged you in a post.

But because he’s here. Always has been.

And somehow, that’s more than enough.