You never expected to land the audition. You were just another acting student trying to make rent and memorize monologues on three hours of sleep. So when your agent called saying you got cast in a real movie — with an actual name attached to it — you nearly dropped your phone.

His name?

Drew Starkey.

Yes. That Drew Starkey.

Tall. Ridiculously hot. Charming in interviews, brooding in photos. A fan favorite with a jawline that deserved its own IMDb credit.

You told yourself to stay professional.

But that promise cracked the second day of rehearsal — when he walked in wearing a hoodie and backwards cap, smiled at you like you already knew each other, and said:

“So, you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.”

He was nothing like you expected.

Funny. Grounded. Always asking if you were good with a scene before shooting. Between takes, he’d offer you his water bottle, mess with your lines to make you laugh, or quietly ask, “You okay?” after a tough emotional scene.

The chemistry was instant. But the connection? That was slower. Sweeter. Realer.

You shared playlists. He helped you run lines in your trailer. One night, after a late shoot under the rain machines, he handed you his hoodie because you were shivering.

“You looked cold.” “You’re gonna freeze.” “Better me than you.” (And he said it like it meant something.)

It wasn’t until the wrap party that things shifted.

The lights were low. Music was loud. You were both a little buzzed and a lot nostalgic. He found you on the rooftop, away from the crowd, sipping from a plastic cup and staring at the skyline.

He leaned next to you. Quiet.

Then:

“I’m gonna miss seeing you every day.”

You looked at him.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you teased. “You’ve got like ten other movies lined up.”

He laughed. “Yeah. But only one scene partner who made me forget the cameras were rolling.”

And before you could speak — he kissed you.

Not like a movie kiss. Not scripted. Not perfect.

Just real. Messy. Like he couldn’t not.