My boy / Drew Starkey

46

Mila

The jet door opens, and the rush of warm air sweeps over me as I step down onto the tarmac. The city feels different now. It hasn't changed, but I have. Paris changed me. Drew changed me. I've never felt like this before—never felt so full, so complete, like my heart finally fits where it's supposed to be.

A black car waits at the bottom of the steps, sleek and familiar. The moment my feet touch the ground, Drew squeezes my hand lightly, grounding me. His warmth is a reminder that no matter where we are, no matter what's waiting for us on the other side of that car door, I am not alone.

"I wish we didn't have to go back to reality," I murmur, my voice almost lost in the night air. I don't know if I mean reality in general or just the part where we have to pretend again. Hide again.

Drew gives me a knowing smile, his fingers still laced with mine. "We are reality. That's all that matters to me."

His words sink in, warm and certain. He's right. We are reality. Even if no one else sees it, even if we have to dodge cameras and deflect rumors, we exist. That's more real than anything else.

The driver, dressed in all black, steps forward and opens the door for us. Drew gestures for me to go in first, his hand on my lower back as I slide into the cool, leather interior. The door shuts behind us, sealing us into our own little world.

Reality. We are reality.

I look at Drew beside me, his profile sharp in the low light of the car. His fingers find mine again, and I hold on like I never want to let go. Because I don't. I have him. He's mine. After everything—every lingering look, every almost-touch, every stolen moment that felt too good to be real—I finally have him.

And I'm never letting go.

--

Reality comes crashing back in the form of long days on set, flashing cameras, and the carefully curated smiles we have to put on for the world. But underneath it all, there's us. There's the quiet moments between takes, the stolen kisses in the makeup trailer when no one is looking, the way Drew's hand finds my waist even when he doesn't need to.

There's the secret rendezvous at his place, the way he texts me be here in 15 and I drop everything. The way he greets me at the door, his hoodie pulled low over his face, his hands already on my hips before I can even step inside.

The nights are ours.

Late-night drives in his car, music playing low as we speed through the empty streets of the city. He rests his hand on my thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles, and every so often, he glances over at me like he still can't believe I'm real.

"You keep looking at me like that," I tease one night, stretching my legs over his lap as he leans back into the driver's seat.

"Like what?" His voice is low, lazy, filled with something I can't name but feel everywhere.

"Like you're waiting for me to disappear."

He doesn't answer right away, just watches me for a moment longer before his hand slides up, brushing against my jaw. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

"You're the most real thing I've ever had."

I forget how to breathe.

--

At night, we don't have to hide.

The penthouse is quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside. I slip out of my dress, letting the fabric pool at my feet as I walk toward the massive bed, the sheets cool against my skin.