It was the Marty Supreme premiere, and everyone who was anyone in Hollywood had shown up. Y/n smoothed down the front of her dress, a vintage-inspired red number she'd spent weeks tracking down, and smiled for the cameras. It was her fourth premiere since moving to LA, and she was starting to get the hang of it.

Just keep walking. Don't stop. Smile. Look confident.

A publicist she didn't recognize tugged her elbow, guiding her toward a knot of photographers. "One more, darling—over here—perfect—"

And then, over the roar of the crowd and the click of the cameras, she heard a voice. Low, Southern, amused.

"You're doing that wrong, you know."

Y/n turned.

Drew Starkey was standing a few feet away, one hand in the pocket of his black suit, a glass of something amber in the other. He wasn't looking at her like he was trying to get her attention—more like he'd just noticed something interesting and couldn't help himself. His hair was longer than she'd seen it in press photos, curling just past his ears, and there was a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"The whole 'mysterious chanteuse gliding past the cameras' thing," he said, gesturing vaguely with his glass. "You're rushing it. You gotta give 'em a beat. Let 'em wonder."

Between them, a reporter was shouting his name, but Drew didn't seem to notice. He just tilted his head, watching her with those dark, steady eyes.