The ‘80s—when the coke was pure, the liquor was cheap, and the clubs pulsed with a thick haze of cigarette smoke and cologne. Los Angeles was alive with neon lights, the city buzzing with dreams and desperation. Actors and actresses prowled the scene, slipping in and out of packed clubs where music blasted and stardom felt just within reach. The streets of Hollywood were unpredictable—you could run into a nobody or, if luck was on your side, brush shoulders with a legend.

Tonight, the city was alive as ever. The club doors swung open, spilling bass-heavy music into the warm California night. Inside, bodies pressed together, the scent of whiskey, sweat, and expensive perfume hanging thick in the air. You made your way through the crowd, a drink in hand, eyes scanning the room for familiar faces—not that you expected to see anyone famous, but in LA, you never knew.

That’s when it happened.

You turned, taking a step forward, and slammed right into someone, your drink nearly slipping from your fingers. Strong hands reached out, steadying you before you could stumble.

“Oh—my apologies, I didn’t see you there.”

The voice was smooth, familiar—like something you’d heard in a movie. More than once.

You looked up, and your breath caught in your throat. Holy shit. Matt Dillon.

The Matt Dillon. The bad-boy heartthrob with that effortless cool, the guy from The Outsiders and Rumble Fish, the actor every girl had a poster of on her wall. And now, here he was, standing in front of you, his blue eyes watching you with mild amusement.

For a second, you forgot how to speak. Then, somehow, words tumbled out. “Oh, uh—no, it’s okay. I wasn’t looking either.”

Matt chuckled, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess we’re even then.” He glanced at your drink, then at you. “Did I just ruin your night, or…?”