When Evan Peters was in his twenties, everything in his life felt like it was happening too fast.

Auditions in Los Angeles. Small roles turning into bigger ones. The pressure of proving he wasn’t just another kid from St. Louis chasing a dream. Before American Horror Story made him a familiar face, before the headlines and conventions and fan edits—he was just Evan. Nervous. Ambitious. A little awkward. And completely in love with you.

It was one of those gray California afternoons where the rain didn’t pour dramatically—it just lingered. Soft. Steady. Persistent. The kind of rain that made the city feel smaller.

You were curled up on the couch in his tiny apartment, one he insisted was “temporary” until he “made it.” The coffee table was cluttered with script pages, a half-empty mug of tea, and a notebook filled with his messy handwriting. He’d been preparing for an audition all morning, pacing, muttering lines under his breath, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Do I sound stupid?” he asked suddenly, looking over at you with wide eyes.

“You sound intense,” you said gently. “That’s the point.”

He dropped dramatically onto the couch beside you, burying his face into a pillow. “I don’t wanna be the intense guy forever,” he mumbled. “What if that’s all they see?”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, damp from the rain he’d walked through earlier. “You’re more than that.”

He turned his head to look at you, really look at you. In his twenties, Evan had this boyish softness to him. Pale skin, messy hair, nervous hands. He carried ambition in one pocket and insecurity in the other.

“You really think so?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “You care too much to be just one thing.”

That made him smile—small, crooked, almost shy.

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like he needed the anchor. “You know I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, right?” he said, more serious now. “All this auditioning and rejection and pretending I’m not terrified? I’d probably move back home.”

“You won’t,” you said. “You’re stubborn.”

He laughed softly. “Only when it matters.”

The rain tapped against the windows, steady and calming. The world outside felt far away. No red carpets. No interviews. Just two people in a small apartment, wrapped in blankets, listening to the storm.

He shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours. “When I make it,” he murmured, “I’m gonna remember this. This couch. This rain. You.”

You swallowed. “You talk like I won’t be there.”

His hand tightened around yours. “I want you there,” he said quickly. “I just… I don’t know what this life does to people. I don’t wanna lose you in it.”

There was honesty in his voice. Real fear. He wasn’t worried about fame yet—he was worried about change.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered.

But even as you said it, the future felt like something unpredictable. He was on the brink of something big. You both knew it.

He leaned in slowly, kissing you like he had all the time in the world. Like the rain would never stop. Like the future wasn’t waiting outside the door.

Later, you both stayed there in silence, your head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, Evan whispered into your hair, barely audible.

“Promise me something.”

And he waited for your answer.