The glitz of Hollywood has never felt so suffocating.

Today should have been triumphant—another award, another speech polished and delivered, another designer gown stitched to perfection—but your face has been splashed across every glossy cover at the newsstands. The same face now dissected by strangers on talk shows, gossiped about over cocktails, whispered about behind manicured hands at rooftop parties. Every headline seems to echo in your head: Is she in love? Is she unhinged? Is she losing her shine?

By the time you slip into The Halloway—a dim, hushed restaurant tucked far from SoHo—it feels like the world has finally exhaled, if only for a night. The clatter of paparazzi cameras still lingers in your ears, but here, the lighting is soft, the hum of conversation discreet. Here, you’re not an image. You’re just tired.

“Evening, miss. Welcome.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts. You look up—and forget how to breathe.

Dave Ridley.

At first glance, he’s not the sort of man who tries to be noticed, but there’s something magnetic in his ease. He’s tall—six-two, lean and broad-shouldered beneath the crisp white shirt he wears. The sleeves are rolled neatly to his forearms, veins and muscle shifting as he sets a glass of water before you. His skin holds the faintest sun-kissed warmth, and when he leans in, you catch the subtle drift of his cologne—fresh, aquatic, with the quiet pull of musk. Versace Dylan Blue, you recognize it without meaning to.

And his eyes—warm, steady brown—don’t flicker with recognition the way most people’s do. He doesn’t stumble over your name, doesn’t gush about your last film or your speech at the Golden Globes. His gaze meets yours as if you’re simply another guest who’s had a long day.

“Big day?” His voice is low, warm, unfazed.

You let out a small laugh, brittle around the edges. “Something like that.”

His smile is faint, but it reaches his eyes. “Well, you’re safe here. Best thing on the menu is the ribeye. Trust me.”

You should be used to people fawning, tripping over themselves to impress you. You should expect the phone raised for a selfie, the rushed whisper about calling their sister who’s your biggest fan. Instead, Dave moves with calm precision, speaking with an ease that disarms you. For the first time in weeks, you feel seen—not as the actress, not as the headline, but as a woman sitting at a table, hungry, tired, human.

Hours slip by more easily than they should. You catch him laughing with the other servers, rich and unrestrained, that boy-next-door charm alive in his grin. He checks in just enough, never hovering, but every time he passes, you feel the brush of his presence, like gravity bending closer. When he thinks you’re not looking, his gaze lingers—not in possession, but curiosity.

When the check comes, there’s a note scrawled in quick, neat handwriting at the bottom corner.

Not everyone gets what they want, but maybe they find what they need. – Dave.

You stare at it, the words looping through your mind like a melody, until you notice what rests beneath—a number, inked in the same pen, written as though he’s not sure you’ll ever use it.

Later, sliding into your car, the world surges back—the paparazzi flashbulbs strobing against the tinted glass, voices calling your name, hunting for a reaction, a misstep, another headline to devour. But in your clutch, your fingers curl around the folded receipt.

And in the blur of chaos, it feels like the only real thing you’ve held onto all night is Dave Ridley’s number.