Drew Starkey wasn’t just famous. He was Drew Starkey — the man, the myth, the legend. The one with a face sculpted by gods: ocean-blue eyes that could drown you, a smile that turned millions into mush, and a presence that made the world stop. Every magazine wanted him, every camera loved him.

But to you, he was just Drew.

And you? You were no stranger to the spotlight. The most adored actress, model, and influencer of your generation — glowing green eyes like crushed emeralds, a perfectly straight nose, pouty pink lips, a dusting of freckles across sun-kissed cheeks, dirty-blonde hair that shimmered in every photograph. The world was obsessed.

Your story wasn’t some Hollywood fling. It started long before red carpets and flashing bulbs. Your families had been inseparable since you were born. Drew’s mom, Jodi, adored you from the very beginning. Year after year you and Drew grew up side by side: summers at the lake, winters spent around each other’s fireplaces, the kind of childhood that quietly builds something unshakable. Jodi, Drew’s mom, had adored you from the start—always calling you her “bonus daughter.” You and Drew grew up side by side, best friends who could finish each other’s sentences.

At fourteen, friendship had quietly shifted. Late-night jokes became shy glances; one evening laughter melted into a kiss that neither of you forgot. You started dating, and though you feared it might be the kind of love that faded with teenage years, it only grew deeper.

By the time you turned twenty, Drew—now twenty-three—proved every doubt wrong. At your birthday party on June 17th beneath a string of lights and a sky full of stars, he dropped to one knee and asked you to spend forever with him. You said yes before the crowd even finished gasping.

The wedding came months later: a sun-drenched celebration in the Maldives with family and closest friends. You wore his last name like it had always belonged to you. The diamond ring on your finger caught every flicker of sunset.

Honeymoon days blurred into nights across Italy, France, Spain, and Greece. Love tasted like salt on your skin and laughter in every city.

A year later, on March 17th, life gave you its greatest surprise. You found out you were pregnant. The way you told Drew—handing him a tiny box filled with baby shoes and a newborn onesie—made him drop to his knees all over again.

Months blurred by in excitement and a rush of ultrasounds and nursery paint. And on November 17 — the same month Drew was born — you welcomed a baby boy: Andrew Alexander Starkey.

He was perfect. Soft and tiny, with your button nose and full lips, but otherwise every inch his father.

⸻

Now it was summertime, and Andrew was four months old.

Morning light spilled across the bedroom in a golden haze. The city outside was still quiet, the world not yet awake. Drew lay back against the pillows, his ocean-blue eyes still heavy with sleep, your son resting on his chest, small breaths rising and falling in rhythm with his father’s heartbeat.

You curled against Drew’s side, resting your head on his shoulder. The familiar warmth of his arm slid around you. The three of you formed a quiet little world — no cameras, no noise, no rush.

Andrew stirred softly, his tiny fingers flexing against Drew’s skin. Drew smiled without opening his eyes. he whispered, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“Morning, little man,”