The bungalow was quiet—eerily so, compared to the constant noise of downtown Los Angeles. You stood at the edge of your tiny, ivy-wrapped patio, mug in hand, looking out over the city lights blinking below. The move was last-minute, impulsive even. You’d told yourself it was to finish your screenplay, to finally escape the distractions. But maybe you were running from something too.

Next door was a large, modern home set back behind towering hedges. Rumor was that it belonged to someone famous. You didn’t know who—and you didn’t care. This was your clean slate.

Until you saw him.

It started with a sound. A soft clang from over the fence, followed by a muttered curse.

You leaned over, curious, and saw a figure crouched near the base of the fence, wearing a black hoodie, hands smeared with dirt and paint.

And then he looked up. Drew Starkey. The actor. The heartthrob. The one who had seemingly vanished from the public eye six months ago.

He blinked at you, then smiled sheepishly.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was fixing something.”

You stood frozen. “You’re… Drew Starkey.”

His expression tightened slightly, as if hearing his own name stung.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

Days passed. You told yourself it was nothing. A chance encounter.

But Drew kept showing up. Watering plants outside at the same time you took your breaks. Bringing over a cup of coffee without being asked. Sitting on your patio step at 2 a.m., hoodie up, eyes tired, like he had nowhere else to be.

“I like it out here,” he said one night, barely above a whisper. “People forget this part of LA exists. It’s not fake. Not… loud.”

You nodded. “I moved here to finish something. But maybe I just wanted to disappear too.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.”

Drew wasn’t what you expected. He didn’t talk about Hollywood. He didn’t bring up roles or premieres or gossip. He asked about your writing. He made grilled cheese like a pro. He played guitar on his porch late at night when he thought no one was listening.

There were moments—little ones—when your fingers brushed, when his gaze lingered too long, when you caught him looking away, jaw tight, eyes dark with something unspoken.

He was hiding.

So were you.

It was a rare LA storm. Thunder cracked the sky, and rain fell like a curtain. The power flickered, then died. You were alone in your bungalow, flashlight dead, candles casting shadows.

Then came a knock.

Drew.

Dripping wet, hoodie clinging to his skin, hair slicked back, eyes wide.

“Do you—do you mind if I stay?” he asked. “Just for a little while?”

You stepped aside. He entered like a man who didn’t know how to ask for comfort but needed it anyway.