L.A. stretches wide beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in a golden glow that blurs the line between reality and illusion. Inside the upscale lounge, everything is curated for a certain type of crowd—the effortlessly powerful. The lighting is low, the music a mix of smooth jazz and something modern.

Your book—I Don’t Know, But We’ll Get There—has found itself in the hands of people you never imagined. What started as a deeply personal reflection, something you wrote for people who felt as lost as you once did, has somehow made its way into the circles of Hollywood and beyond. It’s been quoted in interviews, shared in Instagram stories, and now, here you are—caught in a whirlwind you weren’t prepared for. A well-connected acquaintance, someone who works with the LA baseball team, invited you tonight. “Just come,” they said. “You never know who you’ll meet.”

You sip your drink, scanning the room with practiced ease, blending in even though this isn’t your world. You recognize some faces—athletes, actors, producers—laughing over overpriced whiskey. No one pays you much attention, which is exactly how you like it.

Until he walks in. Tyler Hoechlin. Dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves casually rolled to his forearms. He moves through the crowd easily, exchanging greetings with familiarity, the kind of guy who belongs without trying.

You’ve seen him before—on screen, in interviews, in passing conversations about Hollywood heartthrobs who somehow manage to stay grounded. But instead of staring, instead of reacting like most would, you take another sip of your drink and look away.

That should be the end of it. But then, as if the universe has other plans, he ends up right beside you at the bar.

His presence is warm, effortless. He orders a drink, glances around the room, then turns to you with an easy smile. “First time at one of these?” His voice cuts through the quiet hum of conversation, smooth and familiar.