Drew Starkey was one of London’s most well-known Magic Mike performers. Confident, controlled, and magnetic onstage, he had a reputation for stealing attention the second he stepped under the lights. Crowds loved him for his charm and precision, for the way he seemed completely in control of every room he entered.
Y/N was the opposite.
She lived a normal life—worked a regular job, liked quiet evenings, and never imagined herself connected to anything glamorous. She didn’t crave attention and didn’t care much for fame. The only part of Drew’s world she truly belonged to was him.
They lived together in a house in London, away from the noise and crowds. At home, Drew wasn’t a performer—he was just her boyfriend. And Y/N wasn’t impressed by the cheers or the rumors. She knew the version of him that came home tired, barefoot, and smiling only for her.
That night, Drew had just returned from a show.
He set his bag down and looked up to find Y/N leaning casually in the doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression.
“What?” he asked, amused.
She tilted her head. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he said, stepping closer.
She smiled. “You know… you could always give me a show like that.”
Drew stopped.
He studied her for a moment, clearly entertained. “You sure you want that?”
She shrugged, pretending to be calm. “I live with a Magic Mike dancer. I think I’ll survive.”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Alright,” he said simply. “Sit.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait—what?”
Without answering, Drew pulled a chair from the dining table and placed it right in the middle of the living room, turning it slightly like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then he looked at her again, expectant.
“Sit. Right there.”
Her heart started racing as she did, hands resting awkwardly on her lap. Drew took his time—loosening his sleeves, adjusting the music, never once breaking eye contact.
“This feels very unfair,” she said.
He chuckled. “You asked.”
He stopped a few steps in front of her, then leaned down, gripping the back of the chair on either side of her shoulders—close, but not touching.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, straightening. “Then don’t look away.”
The music started, low and steady. Drew moved with the same confidence he had onstage—but slower, more intentional. Every glance, every step was focused entirely on her.
No audience. No applause. Just tension filling the room.
Y/N realized then that this—this private version of him—was far more intense than anything London ever saw.
And Drew knew exactly what he was doing.