The line to meet Drew Starkey was longer than you expected. Your palms were sweaty, your heart was racing, and your phone was dangerously close to dying from all the times you’d checked the time. But you were finally next — and you had nothing for him to sign.

No poster. No hat. Not even a napkin.

You stepped up to the table, feeling about three kinds of unprepared.

Drew looked up, pen in hand, smile lazy and familiar — like he already knew you. “Hey, trouble,” he said, eyes flicking from your face to your empty hands. “You didn’t bring anything?”

You shook your head, half-embarrassed, half-shaky from the way he was looking at you. “I didn’t think I’d actually get to the front.”

He leaned forward a little, voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch. “Well, now you’re here. Gotta sign something, right?”

You blinked. “I mean… I guess my phone case—”

But he tilted his head, gaze sweeping down and back up again, that teasing glint unmistakable.

“Nah,” he said slowly, smirking. “I’ve got a better idea.”

And before you could fully process what was happening, he clicked the Sharpie, leaned in, and — with one raised brow for permission — scribbled his name in neat, bold letters across the top of your exposed chest, just above the neckline of your tank top.

The crowd around you gasped. Some laughed. A few phones definitely caught it.

Your heart? Beating out of your damn chest.

He capped the pen and winked. “There. Now you’ve got the rarest piece of merch here.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you seriously just—”

He grinned. “Guess you’re branded now.”

You turned to walk away, dazed and flustered, when he called after you:

“Next time,” he said, voice a little softer, “bring a pen… or let me take you to dinner instead.”