You weren’t supposed to be there. It was a mix-up — two rooms booked under the same name during a press tour in New York. You walked in with your suitcase, fully expecting to be alone, when the bathroom door opened and out walked Drew Starkey. Shirtless. Towel slung low on his hips. Dripping.

You froze. He blinked. “You’re not room service.”

“Clearly not,” you said, voice higher than usual.

He smirked.

You turned to leave, heart in your throat, but he grabbed his phone and glanced at the screen. “Wait—are you Y/N?”

You nodded. Slowly.

He laughed. “Looks like someone on the team messed up.”

One room. One bed. One night.

And you? You had nowhere else to go.

He let you stay. Pulled the blankets off the bed and tossed you one for the couch, claiming he didn’t sleep much anyway.

But neither of you could.

You ended up talking. Late. About weird audition stories, worst fan encounters, favorite comfort shows. He made you laugh more than you should’ve. He listened like it mattered.

At some point, you caught him staring.

“What?”

He leaned against the headboard, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy.

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That a compliment?”

He smirked. “Definitely.”

The air went still. Thick. Charged.

Around 2 a.m., you were still on the couch, tossing and turning.

“You good?” he asked, voice groggy.

“No. This pillow’s basically a folded towel.”

He laughed softly. “Come here, then.”

You sat up. “What?”

“I’m not gonna try anything,” he said. “Unless you want me to.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip. But it did.

You climbed into the bed. Stayed on your side. Barely breathed.

Until you felt it — his fingers brushing yours under the covers. Just a touch.

“Can’t sleep either?” he whispered.

You turned toward him. Inches apart now.

“Not when you keep looking at me like that.”

The next morning was… quiet.

Sunlight through the curtains. Clothes scattered. His arm still wrapped around you like he forgot the world existed beyond the four walls.