Drew Starkey Imagines

Café in Paris

The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving Paris glazed in silver, the streets shimmering with reflections of golden lamplight. You'd ducked into a little café tucked off Rue Saint-Honoré, one of those places where the windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside and the smell of buttered croissants lingered in the air.

The café was crowded — travelers, locals, a pair of students bent over their laptops, an older man reading Le Monde with his espresso. You had managed to snag one of the last tables, a tiny round marble one by the window. A croissant sat half-eaten on your plate, a book open in your hands, and your café crème cooling just enough to sip slowly.

It felt like a perfect Parisian cliché, and you were soaking it in.

That's when the door chimed. You glanced up — and froze.

Drew Starkey walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, hair a little messy from the drizzle outside, his coat dark against the soft light. He looked almost out of place and yet completely at home, the kind of presence you couldn't ignore even if you tried. You'd seen him on-screen before, of course, but in person... it was different. Realer. More magnetic.

He scanned the café for a seat, realized there were none, and his eyes landed on yours. A small, polite smile curved his lips as he approached.

"Hey," his voice was low, warm, with the slightest Southern lilt. "Mind if I sit? Looks like every other seat's taken."

Your heart thudded, but you managed a steady smile. "Yeah, of course. Go ahead."

He slid into the chair across from you, setting down his umbrella and unwinding the scarf from his neck. Up close, he was even more striking — sharp jawline softened by his easy smile, blue eyes catching the light from the window.

"I'm Drew," he said, offering his hand across the table, as if you didn't already know.

"I know," you admitted with a small laugh, shaking his hand. "I've seen your work. Outer Banks, Hellraiser—I'm a fan."

His smile widened, a little bashful at your honesty. "Always wild to hear that in the middle of Paris."

You shrugged, trying not to seem too starstruck. "I'm Y/N, I'm here for a week with some friends — just doing the whole Paris-in-the-fall thing. Croissants, museums, pretending I'm in a movie."

"Good plan," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "I'm here for a fashion show. Two days, and now I've got the rest of the week to actually see the city. Looks to be that way for you too. Guess the timing worked out."

The chemistry was instant, effortless. No awkward pauses, just an ease that felt almost unreal.

Drew's gaze flicked to your book. "What are you reading?"

You glanced down, brushing your fingers over the pages. "A fall romance novel. Thought it would fit the vibe, you know? Leaves falling, cozy cafés, Paris."

He tilted his head, amused. "You're really committing to the aesthetic."

"Obviously," you teased, then countered, "Do you read?"

"Sometimes," he said, a small laugh escaping. "Mostly Harry Potter, if I'm being honest. I read the whole series like three times when I was younger. That probably doesn't sound very... artistic."

"It sounds comforting," you said softly, and his smile flickered into something more genuine.

The conversation unraveled easily after that. You talked about the book, about how fall romances always had this bittersweetness that made them addictive. He admitted he liked stories that felt grounded, real, the kind where characters made mistakes. You told him about your trip so far — getting lost on the metro, stumbling into a tiny bookstore where the owner gave you free bookmarks, the way the Eiffel Tower sparkled at night like it was alive.

In turn, Drew shared his impressions of Paris. How different it felt from LA. How walking the streets here made him slow down, notice details — the iron balconies, the smell of bread baking in the mornings, the fact that the city really did seem designed for lovers.

Somewhere between sips of coffee and bites of pastry, the café faded around you. The chatter, the clinking of cups, even the soft jazz from the radio — it all blurred. It was just you and Drew, leaning closer across the table, voices dropping lower as if the conversation was a secret only you two got to share.

At one point, he asked, "So, fall romance book girl... what's the most romantic thing you've seen in Paris so far?"

You thought for a moment, then smiled. "This might sound cliché, but... probably this. Sitting in a café, reading, and then some ridiculously tall, ridiculously charming stranger asking to sit with me."

His laugh was quiet, but the look in his eyes lingered on you a little longer than before. "Yeah... I'd say that's hard to beat."

The chemistry wasn't loud, it wasn't forced — it was the kind that slipped under your skin and stayed, the kind that made you forget you'd only just met.

Outside, the rain started again, light against the glass. You closed your book, no longer needing it. Drew leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, and said, "You know, since we got a whole week here - maybe we should make a list. Paris things worth sharing."

And just like that, the next seven days stretched out before you, golden and infinite — the city at your feet, and Drew Starkey across from you, smiling like he'd just stumbled into the best story he'd ever been a part of.