Twelve thousand people scream your name. Well—your name and his. Same breath, same volume.

You're standing on a stage in front of them. Your famous... like your mother—wow. But unfortunately, you're standing next to this dickhead Owen at a fan event. Ughh. How is he so fucking hot?

He's in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair doing that thing where it looks effortless even though you know he spent forty minutes on it. He smells like cedar and something expensive.

Owen smiles—that perfectly calibrated, camera-ready smile—and pulls you closer. His hand lands on your lower back, warm through your shirt, fingers spread like he's done this a thousand times. Ew. Ew. You're only doing this for the fans.

Welcome to your life.

The green room backstage is small and beige, with a sad fruit platter and a mirror surrounded by dead bulbs.

You've been holding it in since the stage. The second the door clicks shut behind you, Owen drops the smile like it's a costume piece.

Or so you thought.

Because you have no idea that Owen Jesse is going to be at that exact party.