You weren’t the kind of fan who’d scream at the sight of a celebrity or beg for selfies with shaking hands. You liked Drew Starkey—sure. The guy was hot. Ridiculously hot, actually. His characters always had this brooding, chaotic energy you couldn’t help but watch. But that was it. You admired from a distance, enjoyed his work, maybe replayed a scene or two more than necessary.

So when your friend dragged you out to one of those club nights in L.A.—the kind you always saw tagged on Instagram with Outer Banks cast sightings—you didn’t expect anything. You came for the drinks, the music, and the chance to wear something risky.

The bass was thumping, your heels were killing you, and you’d just downed your second tequila shot when you saw him. Drew. Taller in person. Looser too, like the buzz in his veins made him glow. His hair was pushed back, shirt half-unbuttoned, whiskey glass in hand. He was leaning against the bar, grinning at something Rudy said, when his eyes landed on you.

And stayed there.

You tried not to look. You failed.

“Shit,” you muttered into your drink when he walked over. Tipsy, not sloppy. Confident, not cocky.

“You’re way too pretty to be standing here alone. Why’re you alone pretty girl?” he asked with a lazy smile.

You hummed. “Can’t a girl enjoy her alone time?”

The flirtation was easy. Liquid courage made the night blur in the best way. One minute you were dancing, the next you were in the back of his car, your name leaving his lips like he’d known it for years and before you could question anything, you were waking up tangled in his arms at his hotel. The curtains were cracked, sun bleeding into the room. His arm was still around your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

Then a kiss. Soft, slow. Right on your shoulder. One small but important detail was forgotten—you hadn’t taken your birth control that morning.

You blinked. The world was spinning just a little too fast for this to be real.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Where can I find you?”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Instagram. I’ll type it in.”

He handed you his phone and watched as you typed your handle.

Then you left.

You didn’t expect him to follow you. You didn’t expect anything. But he did follow you. He liked a few posts. You liked a couple back. It was a memory, sealed in a box with a gold ribbon.

Until a month later.

You were never late. Not once. Like clockwork, your cycle arrived on the dot. But this time, it didn’t. And the more you waited, the more the panic started sinking in. You stood in the bathroom, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

You didn’t want to check the calendar. But you did.

Then you remembered.

You forgot your pill that morning. The morning before the club. You never missed it. Never.

Your hands shook as you ripped open the box. The test stared back at you, waiting to change your life.

Five minutes.

Positive.

The word hit you like a truck. You sat on the floor, hand over your mouth, trying to breathe. Trying to grasp the reality that the man you’d crushed on from behind a screen, the one whose arm was around your waist just weeks ago, was now the father of the baby inside you.

No PR team. No staged moment. No plan.

Just a girl, a night, a man who kissed her shoulder at sunrise, and a future neither of you saw coming.