You’ve been on your feet for hours — coordinating interviews, confirming press slots, reminding Drew of names he might forget, smoothing over last-minute changes. You’re the quiet rhythm behind his public presence, checking everything twice, always a step ahead. He doesn’t say much during the event, but when he does — a soft “thanks”, a quick glance — it’s always with sincerity.

At the premiere, you stay just outside the spotlight, earpiece in, phone in hand, watching it all unfold like a polished routine. Drew handles it effortlessly, but you know the part you play in keeping it that way.

By the time you both arrive at the afterparty, you’re already reviewing tomorrow’s schedule in your head. You keep a discreet distance, answering a few emails, organizing transportation logistics for later, staying ready in case he needs anything.

Then Drew turns, catches your eye from across the room, and nods you over. “You’ve been in work mode all night,” he says lightly. “Come on. One drink won’t break your professionalism.”

You hesitate. “I’m fine, really. I still have to—”

“Just five minutes,” he says with a half-smile. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

He already has two glasses in hand. You accept the one he offers you, carefully. “Thank you,” you say, standing beside him.

You keep the glass close but barely sip, eyes scanning the room by habit. He notices.

“You really don’t know how to turn it off, do you?” he says, amused.

“I don’t think it’s in my job description,” you answer, half-joking. “Relaxing.”

He laughs gently, taking a sip of his champagne. “Well, maybe it should be. You’ve handled everything tonight. Like… everything. Seriously.”

You give him a polite smile. “It’s just my job.”

“No, it’s above and beyond your job. Most people would’ve cracked by now. You’re… kind of scary efficient.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Scary?”

“In a good way. Like, I feel completely safe letting you run my life,” he grins, then adds quickly, “Not that I expect you to.”

You chuckle quietly. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to.”

A small silence follows — not awkward, just… quiet. Comfortable. You both sip, watching the room.

Then, more softly, Drew says, “You know, I barely get to actually talk to you. Not like this.”

You glance over, surprised. “I guess I’m usually too busy chasing down publicists or fixing call times.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but you kind of disappear into the job. Like, you’re always right there, but never… here.”

That comment lands somewhere in your chest. You look away, not sure what to say to that. He notices, then adds more gently, “I just mean—you’re clearly good at this. But I hope you’re not burning yourself out trying to be perfect.”

“I’m not trying to be perfect,” you reply, then pause. “I just like… doing things right.”

Drew nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Another beat of silence, but it feels different now. He’s not just your actor. And you’re not just his assistant. Not tonight.

And yet, it’s still professional. He hasn’t crossed a line. Neither have you. But when your glass brushes his by accident, and his fingers brush yours for just a second too long, something lingers.

Later, when you’re alone again, typing out notes for tomorrow, you catch yourself thinking about that moment. Not the drink. Not the party.

Him.

And that’s when the question starts whispering in your head: Am I starting to feel something I shouldn’t?