You met him at a rooftop party in West Hollywood—the kind where people act bored while secretly hoping to be noticed. Drew wasn’t like that. He stood alone by the balcony, quiet, watching. You walked up.

“You look like you hate it here,” you said. He glanced at you. “That obvious?” “Only to someone who gets it.”

He told you his name last, like it wasn’t important. But you knew who he was.

“You in the industry?” “Not like that,” you replied. “I am,” he said, almost apologetic. “Regretfully.”

Later, you left together. His place sat high in the hills, all glass and shadows, warm but untouched. You walked in barefoot, scanning the space. Quiet. No posters, no awards. Just a bass guitar in the corner.

“You play?” “When I can’t sleep.” “So, often?”

He poured two glasses of wine and joined you on the couch. You tucked your legs under you, comfort creeping in like an old song.

“You hate the spotlight?” you asked. “I like acting,” he said. “But the fame? It’s loud. I hate being watched.”

You nodded. “Out there, everyone’s performing. In here, it feels like you’re just… you.”

He tilted his head, eyes on you. “What about you?” You smirked. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending.”

He smiled—soft, knowing. Then reached for the guitar, strumming slow, heavy notes that settled in your chest. You leaned closer without thinking.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “Neither are you.”

There was no script between you. Just pauses that meant something and glances that lingered a second too long. You didn’t need more than that.

And when your eyes started to close, the bass still playing softly, you felt it—not fame, not noise—but the rare peace of being seen when no one’s looking.