The first time you met Drew Starkey, it wasn’t cute. It wasn’t romantic. It was chaos.

You weren’t starstruck. You weren’t the type. You had been dragged to some exclusive LA party you didn’t care about, sipping overpriced champagne, half-bored—until he walked in.

Drew Starkey. Tall, sharp-eyed, and way too confident.

You might’ve ignored him if he hadn’t noticed you first.

His gaze caught on you laughing, something about the whole scene amusing you. And then, just like that, his attention was yours. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

He made the first move, sliding next to you, voice low. “Should I be concerned about what you’re laughing at?”

You barely glanced at him. “Should I be concerned that you care?”

Silence. Then a slow grin, something real, something intrigued.

The game started.

What was supposed to be meaningless small talk turned into sharp, electric back-and-forths. He was smooth, cocky—but you could keep up.

“You’re not like the usual people here,” he mused.

“And you’re exactly like them,” you shot back.

Instead of offense, he laughed. Full, genuine.

By the end of the night, he had you cornered outside, away from the cameras.

“You coming home with me?” he asked, casual, direct.

You tilted your head. “What makes you think I’d say yes?”

His gaze flickered to your lips. “Because I think you like trouble.”

You smirked, stepping closer, just enough to test him. “Maybe. But I don’t play easy.”

His hand brushed against yours, slow, deliberate. “Good. Neither do I.”

One night turned into two. Then a week. Then a month.

The teasing turned real. The games stopped feeling like games.

And when you finally whispered, “I think I might actually love you,” he didn’t hesitate.

He just smirked, pulled you closer, and murmured against your skin—

“Good. Because I already love you.”

And just like that, you collided.