The sun was low when {{user}} first met Drew Starkey. The air smelled like coffee and sunscreen, the kind of afternoon that hummed with slow warmth. She was new to the set, a little nervous, clutching her script like it was a lifeline. Drew noticed her right away, not because she was loud or trying to be seen, but because she was quiet. He had this easy calm about him, a grounded way of moving that made her feel like maybe everything was going to be okay.
They ended up next to each other in the makeup trailer one morning. “You nervous?” he asked, voice soft but teasing. {{user}} smiled, trying to hide it. “A little. You?” He shook his head, smirking. “Always. Just good at pretending I’m not.” That made her laugh, and from that moment, something shifted.
Days on set stretched long, full of camera lights and background chatter. But it was the in-between moments that mattered most. The times Drew would lean against a wall and tell her about his hometown, about how he missed the quiet, or how he liked watching storms roll in from a porch. She’d listen, heart steady and soft. He’d make her laugh at random, tossing out jokes when she least expected it.
One night, they stayed late. The crew had packed up, the set almost empty. Drew sat on the ground, back against a trailer, guitar in hand. {{user}} joined him, sitting cross-legged, the air cool and heavy with stars. “You always this good with late nights?” she asked. “Only when they look like this,” he said, eyes flicking to her before back to his guitar. Her chest ached in that quiet way that happens when you realize something is beginning.
Over the next few weeks, they became a rhythm. Coffee runs, side glances, laughter between takes. Drew would offer her his jacket when she got cold, would brush a strand of hair behind her ear when the wind caught it. She tried not to overthink it, but every small thing he did lingered. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t forced—it was slow, steady, real.
One afternoon, rain trapped them inside a set trailer. The sound drummed against the roof while they sat close, knees almost touching. “You ever get tired of all this?” she asked. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember people like you are part of it, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad.”
She felt her heartbeat stutter. “You say that to everyone?” she teased, though her voice was soft. “Only you,” he said simply.
There was no grand moment after that, no dramatic confession under lightning or sweeping kiss in front of cameras. Instead, there were quiet days, shared smiles, the way he always seemed to find her in a crowd. He’d send her songs he thought she’d like, and she’d send him pictures of sunsets from her hotel window. Slowly, their worlds blurred together.
On the last day of filming, {{user}} stood watching the ocean beyond the dunes. Drew walked up beside her, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “You’re leaving tomorrow?” She nodded. “Yeah. It feels weird, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” he said. Then after a pause, “But I’m glad I met you in all this.”
She turned to him. The wind caught her hair, brushing across her face. He reached out, tucking it behind her ear the same way he always did. “I’m glad I met you too, Drew.”
He smiled, eyes soft in the fading light. “Promise me something?” “What?” “Don’t let this be just another set story.”
{{user}} didn’t answer right away. The world around them felt still, golden in the last stretch of sunlight. She nodded finally. “Okay. I promise.”
They stood there, quiet and warm, while the sun slipped below the horizon. Neither needed to say it, but both knew—something had started that would follow them long after the cameras stopped.
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