He always loved his fans. To him, they weren’t just faces behind a screen—they were people he could talk to, laugh with, like old friends he just hadn’t met yet.

At eighteen, everything still felt new. The fame, the crowds, the constant noise. His fans were kids sometimes, but mostly people his age. Which made the chemistry… easy. Familiar. Like they’d all grown up on the same street.

He sat in a fast food restaurant, tucked into a booth with two of his closest friends. They were actors too, just not as well known yet. Their conversation was light—talking about random auditions, a joke someone made earlier, fries scattered between them.

Then he heard it—a faint knock on the window behind him.

He turned his head over his shoulder and there they were. Two girls, probably his age, phones out, bright smiles lighting up their faces like they’d just stumbled into a dream. He couldn’t help but smile back, the same soft, familiar smile he’d given so many fans before. With a small motion of his hand, he asked if they wanted him to come out.

Their eyes widened, their heads nodded fast. So he got up.

The cool air outside brushed against his skin when he pushed the door open. He walked toward them, hands stuffed casually into his pockets. Photos first—always photos. He leaned in, laughed at their jokes, listened to their nervous chatter. That part was easy.

But then you came.

You walked toward the group without hesitation, like you belonged there. The second his eyes found you, something in his chest stuttered. You weren’t holding up a phone, weren’t screaming. You just joined in, standing beside your friends, quiet but present.

The girls kept talking, their voices overlapping as they asked him about his latest project, how tall he was in real life, if he liked their outfits. But none of it really reached him.

Because his gaze had already locked with yours.

And when it did… it was over.

He held it, like he couldn’t even think about looking away. There was something magnetic in the way your eyes met his—steady, curious, like you were seeing him, not the name people chanted. And the way your lips curved just slightly, the way your head tilted—it mirrored the warmth blooming in him.

He didn’t even hear the next few words the girls said. Their voices blurred into background noise, like a song too far away.

When they finally turned to walk inside the restaurant, you followed them automatically. But before you could take a full step, his hand moved without thought—fingers brushing around your wrist. Just enough to stop you.

The girls didn’t notice. They were already inside. But he kept you there.

And just like that, it was quiet again.

Your eyes met his, and he felt that same pull all over. It made him smile—small, a little awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with everything building in the air between you.

“We didn’t get to talk to each other,” he said softly, voice lower now, less like the boy everyone thought they knew.

You blinked at him, surprised he’d even stopped you. “Yeah, my friends are very talkative.”

He laughed under his breath, a nod pulling at his head. “Figured.”

You smiled at that. It wasn’t big or loud—it was quiet and real. And he swore something in him shifted.

Because for the first time that night, he wasn’t talking to a fan. He was talking to you.