Thanksgiving was chaos.

The house smelled of roasted turkey, cinnamon, and the faint stress of too many hands in the kitchen. Drew had barely stepped inside before his sister shoved his niece into his arms with a firm, “Go entertain her. And don’t come back until dinner’s ready.”

His niece, a tiny tornado in pink sneakers, gripped his hand as they walked toward the park, her laughter ringing out over the crisp autumn air. It wasn’t so bad, being an uncle. Sure, he wasn’t great with kids, but she liked him well enough, probably because he let her eat too much sugar and run wild.

And that’s exactly what they were doing.

Ice cream first, then the playground.

She picked bubblegum flavor, bright blue and melting way too fast. Drew had barely finished paying before she took off at full speed, sprinting across the park, her giggles blending with the crunch of fallen leaves. He chased after her, slow and half-hearted, until

It happened in slow motion.

A stumble. A trip. A tiny gasp. And then impact.

Her tiny body collided with someone, ice cream smashing directly into a stranger’s white skirt. He barely had time to register your shock before his niece gasped dramatically, horrified at her crime.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry!" she squeaked, wide-eyed.

Drew winced. Shit. He turned to you, ready to apologize, but then he saw your face. Frozen, eyes wide, like you’d just seen a ghost.

Or, more accurately, like you’d just seen Drew Starkey in 4K.

You knew that face. Too well. You’d spent way too many late nights watching edits of this man. The sharp jaw, the lazy smirk, the ridiculous charm that somehow made women worldwide lose their minds. And now? He was standing in front of you, real as hell, ice cream dripping down your skirt.

He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Uh… my bad?”

And that was the moment. The moment you realized life really does move like a fan edit.