The camera crew follows you through your home — soft lighting, modern art, a few accolades catching the background. You’re glowing, dressed down but still that kind of beautiful that doesn’t need effort.

“Okay,” the interviewer says, smiling. “Question seventy-one. Last one. If you could spend twenty-four hours with anyone in the world — who would it be?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Y’all really saved that one for last?”

“Yup. No skipping.”

You bite your lip, thinking. You could play it safe — say Beyoncé, say your mom, say someone inspirational. But something about the question feels unserious today. So you grin, lean into the camera just a bit and say—

“CeeDee Lamb. Yeah… him.”

The crew laughs. The interviewer’s eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting answer!”

“Listen,” you say with a shrug, “I didn’t say why, but I said what I said.”

Cut to the internet two hours later. The clip’s trending.

Comments flood in:

“She’s got taste.” “We know what she’d do with those 24 hours 😭🔥” “Until the windows fog, huh sis?” “Can’t even blame her, he is fine.”

You laugh it off online, repost a few memes, act unbothered. But deep down, you lowkey hope he doesn’t see it.

Weeks later, some industry party in L.A.

Warm lighting, expensive perfume, everyone pretending not to care who’s in the room. You’re there for a friend’s launch, glass in hand, trying to stay low-key.

Then you see him.

CeeDee Lamb — tall, tailored, calm like he’s used to attention but not addicted to it. That smile you’ve seen in interviews, the quiet way he moves.

Your stomach drops. You turn on instinct, pretending to check your phone, making a beeline for anywhere not near him.

It would’ve worked too, if his voice hadn’t followed you — deep, smooth, with a hint of amusement:

“So… does the twenty-four hours start now, or you wanna schedule that?”

You freeze. Slowly turn. He’s there, smirking, hands in his pockets like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.

You laugh — half-nervous, half-stunned. “You saw that, huh?”

“Internet doesn’t let a man miss much,” he says, eyes glinting. “You meant it?”

You raise your brow. “You always this forward?”

“Only when somebody says my name like that on camera.”

He steps closer — not too close, but enough that you can smell his cologne, that warm, clean scent that feels like trouble in designer shoes.

And just like that, you forget why you were hiding in the first place.