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baekchelor · 6 months ago

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Off Script

pairings: Drew Starkey x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, Drew Starkey, discovers an undeniable truth: that the line between fiction and reality is thinner than he ever imagined.

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One | Star-Crossed from the Start

The first read-through for Dharma takes place three weeks later at a film studio in Los Angeles. Although Drew let Maddie crash at his place last night, he didn’t even bother to say goodbye when he slipped out of the apartment early that morning. She was still fast asleep on the wrong side of the bed, and he had no reason to stay. He liked to be early, and leaving a pot of coffee ready on the kitchen counter didn’t fit with a no-strings-attached situation.

When Drew arrives, the only people there are Greta Gerwig and a few staffers. The crowd outside, however, is another story—his fans have gathered, screaming declarations of love and waving signs.

“Y/N’s not here yet,” Drew remarks as his tired blue eyes scan the room. He’d hoped to catch her before the reading. Since they hadn’t done a chemistry test, he wanted a chance to introduce himself before diving into the scene.

“She’ll show,” Alma reassures him with a knowing smile, already handing him a cup of coffee like she does every morning. Drew chuckles—his manager’s predictability is comforting. “I heard Joe Burrow’s private jet landed from Cincinnati last night.”

That gets a laugh out of Drew. Alma’s a great manager, but she’s also the biggest gossip in Hollywood. When she called to tell him he’d landed the part in Dharma, she filled him in on every juicy detail the media had published about Y/N and Joe Burrow’s notoriously private relationship.

Alma shrugs, feigning innocence as she watches him sip his coffee. Lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for his ears, she adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept with him last night. But she won’t be sleeping in.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Alma’s lips curl into a sleepy yawn. “Apparently, she’s always on the dot. Never early, never late.”

Amused, Drew checks his phone. Nine o'clock. “Thirty more minutes, then,” he says, placing the phone down next to his script. “Let’s time her.” Alma chuckles, shaking her head, and Drew plays it cool, pretending to savor his coffee with exaggerated delight before flipping open the script.

Dharma is set in 1857 India. The story focuses on Aakesh, a penniless Hindi boy—played by Dev Patel—who believes his low social status is a consequence of bad karma from a past life. Y/N is playing Marina, a wealthy Spaniard, whom Aakesh imagines to be his reincarnated lost love, the very person responsible for his quest to redeem his karma. Drew’s character, James Barlow, comes into the picture when Colonel Edmund Thorn (portrayed by Michael Fassbender), Marina’s concerned fiancé, assigns him as her personal guard when the Indian rebellion ensues. James and Marina fall in love.

As Drew thumbs through the middle of the script, where the plot thickens, it hits him just how demanding this role will be. His character’s love for Marina is expressed not through words, but through quiet, intense glances and subtle gestures—he’ll need to convey a deep, unspoken devotion, stronger than anything he’s played before.

INT. JAMES' ROOM - MIDNIGHT, 1857 The room is cloaked in darkness, save for a faint sliver of moonlight that slips through the heavy curtains. The shadows of two figures are etched upon the wall, their forms entwined in a moment that feels both eternal and fleeting. MARINA, delicate and ethereal in her simple nightgown, stands enveloped in the arms of JAMES. Her braided hair spills over her shoulders, catching the pale light. She is a vision of vulnerability, her small frame trembling against his solid, unyielding presence. JAMES, his eyes shut tight, clings to her as though she might vanish into the night. His grip tightens, his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest. The air is thick with the weight of unspoken words and the ache of impending separation. MARINA (whispering, her voice trembling) I do love you. Tears slip silently down her cheeks, glistening in the moonlight. She does not sob, but the quiet sorrow in her voice is enough to shatter the stillness. MARINA (softly, almost pleading) I am in love with you. James exhales sharply, as though her words have struck him to his core. His eyes remain closed, but he leans down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head in a kiss that lingers—a silent vow, a desperate plea. His hand rises to cradle her face, his touch tender yet urgent. He tilts her chin upward, his lips hovering just above hers, the space between them charged with longing. The kiss begins softly, a tentative brush of lips that speaks of reverence and fear. But then, as if some unseen force has unleashed their restraint, it deepens. Their mouths meet with a hunger that defies reason, a desperate attempt to hold onto what they know they must soon lose. Marina’s tears mingle with the kiss, but neither pulls away. The moment is too precious, too fragile. JAMES (whispering against her lips, his voice trembling) I shall return to you. I swear it. There is a pause, heavy and suffocating. The room seems to hold its breath, the distance between their hearts already widening despite the closeness of their bodies. JAMES (voice breaking, barely audible) I love you.

The words hang in the air, soft yet final, as though this moment is all they will ever have. The moonlight bathes them in its cold glow, a silent witness to a love that dares not speak its name.

Drew closes his eyes, trying to immerse himself in character. He imagines speaking to someone he desperately loves, picturing Maddie—her thick, ash-blonde hair, her smiling eyes, the pink warmth of her cheeks, and the heat of her mouth when they kiss.

It feels almost like cheating, though, because his character is supposed to be in love with Marina, and though Maddie is a girl he enjoys spending time with, he’s not in love with her.

Drew sighs, the breath escaping him in a long, labored stream.

“Everything all right?” The voice is sweet, with a slight upward lilt—a little hesitant but trying not to show it.

Drew looks up. There she is. Y/N Y/L/N stands before him, dark-haired and flushed, her shy expression soft and warm.

“Oh, hello there,” Drew says, shaking himself from his thoughts. He stands and extends a hand, his smile easy but his eyes curious. “Drew.”

“I know,” she giggles, shaking his hand. Her palm is warm, while his is cool. “Y/N. I’m very, very pleased to meet you.”

Drew feels a bit sheepish at that, though he tries not to show it. “Likewise,” he says, his voice warm as their hands fall back to their sides.

“Drew’s been pacing around all morning,” Alma cuts in, her tone dry but teasing as she steps forward. She extends her hand to Y/N, her sharp eyes flicking between the two of them. “I’m Alma, by the way—Drew’s manager, babysitter, and occasional therapist.”

Y/N laughs, a bright, genuine sound that seems to light up the room. “Nice to meet you, Alma. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“You have no idea,” Alma says, shooting Drew a pointed look before turning back to Y/N with a smirk. “But don’t worry, he’s on his best behavior today. Mostly.”

Drew rolls his eyes, though there’s no real annoyance in it. “Thanks, Alma. Really selling me here.”

Y/N's eyes twinkle as she shrugs, playfully coy, “Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse.” Her tight little skirt, which Drew is sure Daisy owns too, looks far better on Y/N. “Look at us getting along,” she says, her eyes transforming into crescent moons. “I must confess, I came prepared to break the ice.” She pauses, pursing her lips, then laughs. “Sorry, that sounded like we’re going on a blind date or something.”

Drew laughs too—her giggles are infectious, and it is kind of funny. “We kinda are? We’re playing star-crossed lovers and didn’t even do a chemistry test. I’m pretty much going into this blind.”

“Aren’t we?” Y/N says, clearly relieved to find someone in the same boat. “I was talking to Dev earlier—apparently, he thinks we’ll have great chemistry.”

Drew chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “My friend Chase said the same thing. He’s convinced we’ll be the next big on-screen couple.” He pauses, his tone turning teasing. “Though I think Joe might have something to say against it.”

Y/N laughs, her hand instinctively flying to the “J” pendant hanging from her necklace. “Oh, please. Joe doesn’t care about Hollywood gossip. Especially not during football season.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “You sure about that?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Trust me, he’s fine. If anything, he’d probably just joke about it and say I’m downgrading from a Super Bowl champion to… well, you.”

Drew clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. And here I thought we were bonding. Guess I’ll have to step up my game.”

Y/N grins, her fingers still brushing the pendant. “Good luck with that. He’s kind of a big deal.”

Drew leans forward, his tone playful but curious. “Big enough to handle sharing you with the world for a few months? Because if this movie hits—and it will—you and I are going to be everywhere.”

Y/N’s smile softens, and she shrugs. “He’ll be fine.”

Drew nods, his expression thoughtful. “Fair enough. But if he starts giving me the stink eye at premieres, I’m blaming you.”

Y/N laughs, her hand dropping from the pendant. “Deal. But don’t worry—he gives the stink eye to everyone.”

Before Drew can respond, Greta chimes in, appearing seemingly from nowhere. “I knew you’d have natural chemistry,” she says, her hand gently squeezing Y/N’s cheek. “Still on time, huh? You never change.”

“It’s all on Sal,” Y/N giggles, referring to Salvatore, her very Italian manager who’s laughing in the far corner, talking to the staff. Drew is only half-listening, his mind still occupied with Y/N's easy charm. He can’t seem to shake the feeling that she has some sort of magnetic presence.

The conversation shifts toward Y/N's last movie, The Selection, where she and Tom Holland bring the bestselling book to life. Drew remembers vaguely that Holland plays a prince, while Y/N's character competes for his heart. It’s not Drew’s kind of movie—he’s pretty sure it’s a bit cringe-worthy—but for some odd reason, he’s decided to watch it when he gets home. Maybe Maddie won’t be there, and he’ll grab some beer and popcorn, settling into the couch for a few hours of forgettable entertainment.

Drew checks his phone discreetly. Nine thirty-five. He and Y/N have been talking for about five minutes. He smirks inwardly.

Right on the dot, he thinks, recalling Alma’s words. Then he hears his name.

“Pardon?” Drew asks, a little startled.

Y/N smiles sheepishly. “I’m going to go sit with Dev. Catch up with you later?”

“Yeah, of course,” Drew says, his tone betraying a hint of reluctance,“Do what you need to do.”

Greta calls for everyone to take their seats around the actors’ table. By luck, Dev and Y/N’s seats are right across from the one labeled Starkey. Drew slides into his chair and places his phone back on the table.

As Y/N walks toward Dev, she turns over her shoulder with a playful smile. “Talk to you later, then, Heartbreak Prince.”

“Heartbreak Prince?” he says, flipping back to the first page of the script. He folds the cover back neatly, his eyes asking the question.

Y/N gestures toward the window where the sound of fans chanting his name still echoes through the street. “Seems fitting.”

Drew laughs softly,“Seems fair.” Then, rubbing his palm over the script, he decides, on a whim, to give her a nickname, too. But he abandons the idea last minute. So, he just laughs.

“Okay,” she says, walking backwards, her hands entwined. “Let’s have fun today, Heartbreak Prince.”

EXT. GARDEN - MORNING, 1857 The garden is a sanctuary of tranquility, bathed in the soft golden light of the morning sun. Tall palm trees stand sentinel at the edges, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. At the center, a grand basin of emerald water glistens, its surface catching the light like a jewel. Paths lined with blooming pink roses wind through the garden, their fragrance perfuming the air. The scene is serene, almost otherworldly, as though time itself has paused to admire its beauty. EDMUND and MARINA stroll side by side, their steps unhurried, their presence a quiet harmony. Edmund’s hands are clasped behind his back, his posture upright yet relaxed. His gaze is tender, fixed upon Marina with an affection that is both gentle and unwavering. Marina walks with her eyes lowered, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. A soft, almost shy smile plays upon her lips, betraying the contentment she feels in this shared moment. As they walk, Edmund’s eyes catch sight of a single blossom clinging to a nearby tree. He pauses, bending gracefully to pluck it from its branch. He holds it out to Marina, his smile warm and sincere. EDMUND (softly, with admiration) No flower in this garden is as fair as my beloved. Marina’s gaze lifts to meet his, her smile deepening as she accepts the blossom. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but carries the weight of genuine feeling. MARINA (gently) And no heart in this world is as kind as thine. The words hang in the air, sweet and sincere. Yet, unbeknownst to her, in but a few weeks, she will come to learn the bitter truth of her own words. Edmund halts their walk, his expression growing more earnest. He gently takes her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. With deliberate care, he presses her hand to his chest, right over his heart. His gaze never wavers from hers. EDMUND (solemnly) This heart is no longer mine. It is thine. His voice is steady, but there is a depth of emotion in his words that cannot be ignored. He pauses, as if to ensure she feels the truth of his declaration. EDMUND (continuing, his tone softer) In all my thirty years, no woman has laid claim to it. But you, Marina... you have claimed it entirely.

Marina looks up at him, her eyes searching his. For a moment, the world around them fades—the garden, the breeze, the distant rustle of leaves. There is only the two of them, and the unspoken promise that hangs between their intertwined hands.

A spark of love passes between them, silent yet undeniable. The moment is tender, fragile, and brimming with the hope of what could be.

“Flirty Thirty.”

A gleam in her eye, a quirk of her lip, and it’s no longer Marina speaking. It’s Y/N, tittering playfully.

The room erupts in laughter. Drew laughs the hardest of all, his amusement genuine.

“Y/N,” Greta chides half-heartedly, her tone more fond than strict. “Don’t break character.”

“Sorry, G,” Y/N replies sweetly, her smile full of innocent mischief. “I just thought I’d break the ice.”

Somehow, Drew finds himself smiling too.

Today marks the fourth official Dharma read-through, and the tenth time they’ve gone over the entire script. Drew understands why Y/N is antsy; he feels it too. He can’t wait to start filming in Mumbai—to inhale the chaotic, spicy air of the streets, to hear the fast-paced hum of Hindi in the background. He’s eager to feel James settle in his bones, the character enveloping him, becoming flesh and blood with each take.

The fact is, read-throughs are dull. So damn repetitive. Drew is just glad he has the perfect distraction in Y/N to make things bearable.

Gerwig sighs in resignation. “Let’s break for lunch,” she announces, addressing the entire group. “Reconvene in an hour.”

Drew catches Y/N’s eye and mouths, Padella? Y/N nods vigorously, flashing two thumbs up and a bright, infectious smile—the one Drew’s grown especially fond of.

“I'm starving,” Drew mutters a few minutes later as they walk toward the nearest Italian restaurant.

“Same here,” Y/N agrees, grinning. “Two more read-throughs, then India, here we come!”

“But we go through the script three times each meeting,” Drew half-whines, half-sniggers at Y/N’s dramatic eye-roll. “We’ll probably take even longer than usual today because of your little adlib.”

“Sorry...” Y/N shrugs playfully.

“It was fun, though.” Drew’s hand instinctively reaches to ruffle the hair at the top of Y/N’s head. He’s not sure why he does it, but the impulse is too strong to resist. He just hopes it doesn’t make her uncomfortable. “Not a lot of laughs in this love story of ours.”

Y/N doesn’t bother smoothing down her messy hair. “Have you ever loved someone that much?”

“Uhm…” Drew hesitates, his fingers instinctively brushing through his fringe. He can feel the strands falling just a little too long, and the thought of needing a trim before the live shoots nags at him. Shifting uncomfortably, his gaze drops for a moment before meeting Y/N's eyes again. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly, his voice softening. “Their love… it’s not something you see every day. It’s like—I don’t know—it’s hard to even describe.”

He pauses, his mind drifting to the script, to the quiet intensity of James and Marina’s connection.

“It’s the kind of love that consumes you, you know? It’s not just about passion or romance—it’s deeper than that.”

He doesn't comment further, Drew’s thoughts are already elsewhere. He’s thinking about Y/N, about the way their own dynamic has started to blur the lines between fiction and reality.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmurs, watching him absently. Her voice is soft, almost wistful, as if she’s caught in the same current of thought. “It is.”

He wants to say something, to break the silence, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he offers a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that she returns with a quiet understanding.

When they reach the restaurant, the waiter, clearly a fan of Y/N’s, greets them enthusiastically.

“You two are so good-looking,” she gushes, but Drew knows the compliment is aimed at Y/N. The waiter, whose name tag reads Flo, is just being polite by including him in the praise. “You get more and more dashing every time I see you.” Y/N offers her the prettiest smile, and Flo beams, thrilled at the reaction she got out of her. Drew would be thrilled too if Y/N smiled at him that way...

<<What?>>

Padella has become a familiar haunt. After the first read-through—when Drew discovered Y/N’s favorite food was any type of pasta—it became their regular spot. Always ordering something new to try and two glasses of wine. Not exactly keeping in line with their diets, but Drew figures these cheat days won’t hurt.

In record time, Flo brings their dishes, leaving a courtesy starter on the table. Drew twirls his fork through the fettuccini, the satisfying, gooey sound as the pomodoro sauce mixes with the pasta making his mouth water.

“Oh, right, if I may,” Drew says. Y/N hums in response, mixing the contents of her own plate. “Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? I’m having dinner with Madelyn Clyne—she’s a very good friend of mine—and she’s cooking carbonara.”

“Oh my god,” Y/N looks up from her dish, her mouth practically watering at the thought of her favorite food. “She won’t mind me crashing your dinner?”

“No,” Drew replies, slouching over his bowl. “She asked me to invite you.”

“Really?” Her brown eyes widen a little in surprise. “Why?”

A mouthful of bolognese slides into Drew’s mouth with a slurp. “I might’ve mentioned your love for Italian food.”

Y/N takes a sip of her rosé. “Won’t you mind me crashing your dinner?”

“Nah,” he smiles, though his heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. “We’re friends.” He swallows the food he’s been chewing on the side of his cheek, then tries to avoid her eyes. “I kind of like hanging out with you.”

“Oh,” she answers instantly, so casual, yet pink paints her cheeks. Drew adores it. “I kind of like hanging out with you, too.”

Drew glances up at her then, and they share a knowing smile before going back to their food. The pasta is oily, red, a little salty. Drew knows he’ll need to brush his teeth and throw a box of mints into his mouth before they return to the read-through, but right now, he doesn’t care. The food is delicious.

Their comfortable silence is interrupted when Y/N’s phone rings from inside her bag. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, then gestures to Drew that she’s going to take the call outside.

"I’ll be right back.”

Drew nods as she answers the phone and walks toward the door.

"Hey, Joe," he hears her say as she slips outside.

Burrow, he thinks, poking another strand of fettuccini into his mouth.

Fleetingly, he wonders if he should tell Y/N to bring Joe along—after all, it’s a friendly dinner. But the thought drifts away when Flo comes by their table to offer more wine. The question doesn’t resurface, not even when Y/N strolls back in from her private call. Joe is in Cincinnati anyway.

In her pale silk blouse and snug skirt—the same one Y/N owns—Maddie looks every bit as stunning as she does in her basic house ads. Drew has to admit it. Yet, there’s a faint itch of discomfort when he looks at her, something that nags at him. To distract himself, he shifts his attention to the other Madelyn in the room: the friend, not the fling.

She’s setting down a plate of sourdough bread on his dinner table, her hair tied back in a casual ponytail. Drew watches her lazily, admiring the elegant table setting. It looks like something out of a high-end restaurant—far superior to Padella’s.

“Since when did you become a chef?” he teases, his tone playful. Madelyn giggles, her focus entirely on the preparations. She wants everything to be perfect—no, better than perfect.

Only then does Drew glance back at his lover, noticing she’s staring at him, her pretty red lips forming a pout.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice tinged with frustration. Drew resists the urge to roll his eyes, too polite to indulge the impulse. He lets her continue her little tantrum. “You know I had a poster of Joe Burrow in my old dorm, right? The whole time I was in university?” Drew gives a barely perceptible nod, though he knows she’s lying. There’s no way she knew who Joe Burrow was back then. “So, please, please, please, please… Please, Drew. Let me meet his girlfriend, hmm?”

“No,” he replies flatly. The hurt in Maddie’s green eyes tells him he’s been too harsh. He reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and she lets him, her lips curling into a small, sweet smile. “I’ll get jealous, baby,” he lies, trying to soften the blow.

She laughs, hiding her face as it flushes a flattering shade of crimson. She’s always been easily flattered by such comments, though Drew doesn’t quite understand why. After all, they’re not a couple.

“Okay,” she says, circling the table. Her fingers lace into Drew’s as she settles onto his lap, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “I’ll get going then. Call me later?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pecking the tip of her nose. Her eyelashes flutter in response.

The moment Maddie leaves, her namesake, Madelyn, pops her head out from the kitchen.

“You know, Joe Burrow is my crush too,” Madelyn says, her tone light and teasing. Drew isn’t sure if she’s mocking him or if she means it.

“Why is every girl I know infatuated with him?” Drew asks, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Madelyn shrugs, a playful smirk on her lips. “He’s the most handsome quarterback in the league. What’s not to like?”

Before Drew can retort further, the doorbell rings. His eyes flick instinctively to the wall clock. 8 PM. Right on time.

“She’s here,” Madelyn says, her tone casual but warm. She smooths her hair back once, a quick and effortless gesture, before heading to the kitchen to finish setting the table.

Drew walks to answer the door as Madelyn places the pasta on the table. Y/N stands in the corridor, a bottle of red wine in hand.

“Look who decided to show up,” Drew says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “And here I thought you’d gotten lost on the way.”

Y/N laughs, shaking her head as she steps inside. “You wish. I’m always on time, Starkey.” She rises on her tiptoes to hug him in greeting, and Drew chuckles, taking the wine. As she steps back, her necklace—the one with the “J” pendant—gets tangled with his earpiece. She laughs, but Drew hates it. He hates that “J” around her neck almost as much as he hates everyone’s obsession with Burrow.

“Right on time, as always,” he says, his tone teasing but his smile genuine.

“Come on in,” Drew adds, waving her inside. “Madelyn’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

Y/N steps into the living room, her warm smile spreading evenly across her face. “Hey, Madelyn. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Madelyn turns from the table, her expression relaxed and welcoming. “Hey, Y/N. Likewise. Drew’s told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully all good things,” Y/N replies with a laugh, her tone easy and friendly.

“Mostly,” Madelyn teases, shooting Drew a quick glance.

Save for a few streaks of pancetta, the serving plates look as though they’ve been licked clean.

“That was incredible, Mads. The best carbonara I’ve ever had,” Y/N compliments the cook. “Thanks for letting me try it.”

“Anytime,” Madelyn replies, her smile warm and genuine. Drew smiles at her, pouring both women another glass of wine.

The night has gone well. Madelyn, ever the outgoing host, wasted no time making Y/N feel at home. She’d seated her next to Drew at the table, and the conversation had flowed effortlessly. At one point, they drifted into a lively discussion about last week’s Bengals at Chargers game, which Madelyn had attended.

“That touchdown Burrow threw in the third quarter was insane,” Madelyn says, her eyes lighting up as she recounts the play. “The way he dodged that sack and still managed to get the ball to Chase—it was unreal.”

Y/N nods, her expression a mix of pride and amusement. “Yeah, he’s something else. I still don’t know how he does it. Every time I think he’s about to go down, he pulls off some ridiculous play.”

Drew, who has been quietly sipping his wine, can’t help but chuckle. “Sounds like you’re describing a superhero, not a quarterback.”

Madelyn laughs. “That game was wild, though. The Chargers almost had him a couple of times.”

“Almost,” Y/N says with a smirk.

Madelyn raises her glass in mock salute. “Touché. How many games have they won in a row?”

“Ten,” Y/N replies, her smile unwavering. “I hope they keep it going. He’s not exactly fun to be around when they lose,” she adds with a laugh.

“I can imagine,” Madelyn says, joining in the laughter.

Drew offers Y/N the last bit of burgundy in the bottle. When she declines, he pours it for himself.

“So, Y/N,” Madelyn says, leaning back in her chair with a relaxed smile, “what’s it like dating a quarterback in postseason? Does Joe ever turn it off, or is it all football, all the time?”

Y/N laughs, her tone light and easy. “Oh, he tries to turn it off, but it’s hard. It’s kind of endearing, honestly.”

Drew can’t quite put his finger on it, but he thinks she’s lying. It’s not endearing—not really. There’s something in her voice, a faint edge that makes him wonder if she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

“So he just never … relax?”

“Sometimes,” Y/N says, her smile softening, her gaze lingering on what Drew presumes are those rare moments Joe isn’t talking football. “But it takes a lot to get him out of football mode. I have to remind him that there’s more to life than touchdowns and interceptions. Like, you know, me.”

She says it without any bite, but Drew can tell it hurts her. There’s a quiet resignation in her tone, a hint of something she’s not saying.

Drew swirls the wine in his glass, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. “Sounds like a full-time job.”

“It can be,” Y/N admits with a laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I don’t mind. He’s worth it.”

Is he? Drew thinks, the question slipping into his mind before he can stop it. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the way Y/N’s smile falters for just a second makes him wonder if she’s asking herself the same thing.

Madelyn nods, her expression thoughtful. “I get that. It’s not easy being with someone who’s that driven.”

“Exactly. But when he’s not in football mode, he’s actually really sweet.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, his tone teasing but with a hint of something sharper underneath, “Lucky guy,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masks by taking a sip of his wine. Blue eyes lingering on Y/N for a beat too long.

“Okay, enough football talk,” Drew says, clearing his throat. He tells himself it’s not jealousy that makes him speak up, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. “I’m just gonna step out for a smoke. Anyone care to join me?”

Madelyn’s face pinches in disapproval. “I wish you’d quit. Those things are horrible for you.”

“Just one,” he bargains, his tone sweet as honey. He pats his belly, producing a compact sound. “I need it. You fed me too well, Mads.”

Y/N snickers, and Madelyn rolls her eyes. Pointedly, she asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Sometimes,” Y/N admits. “But keep it a secret. Joe would kill me.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, his tone teasing but with an edge that makes Y/N’s cheeks flush. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Come on, keep me company.”

Y/N hesitates, glancing at Madelyn, who shrugs. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

“Fine,” Y/N says, standing up. “Lead the way.”

They take the elevator down to the pool area on the fifth floor, where smoking is permitted. He offers her a cigarette, but she declines, so Drew places one between his lips, holding his lighter in front of it until the flame ignites.

Y/N takes a long look at him, the wind tousling his hair across his forehead, the cigarette glowing between his lips. She almost reaches out to touch his face, her fingertips lingering near his stubble, but she decides against it. Instead, she brushes his hair back into place. “I love your earpiece.”

“Thanks,” Drew exhales, his blue eyes locked on hers as smoke curls into a diaphanous ribbon. “So, everything’s going well with Joe, huh?”

Y/N tears her gaze away, her voice softer now. “You say that like you know for sure.”

“Alma likes gossip,” Drew says, licking his lips. They taste of wine and olives.

The girl shrugs, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s been a little chaotic.”

“Oh?” Drew blows a few smoke rings, rounding out his mouth and flicking his tongue to create the hole in the center. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Football season, this movie…” Y/N rushes to answer, her words tumbling out as if she’s been holding them back. “I’d rather not talk about it. Sometimes it’s just… hard to make it work, you know?”

There’s a pause, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them. Drew studies her, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. Without thinking, he makes an offer he didn’t realize was on the table. “Whenever it doesn’t work,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you should just hang out with me.” He quickly adds, “And Mads. Me and Mads.”

Y/N looks at him, her eyes searching his for something he can’t quite name. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence stretching thin but not uncomfortable. Finally, she smiles, a small, tentative thing that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I might take you up on that.” There's a pause, and then she says, “But I’m flying to Cincinnati tomorrow, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

Drew nods, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long before he takes another drag of his cigarette. “When you're back,” he says, his tone light but his words carrying a weight that surprises even him. “You know where to find me.”

Y/N watches him smoke in silence for a few more minutes, the faint glow of the cigarette casting fleeting shadows across his face. When she yawns, Drew stubs it out, the ember dying with a faint hiss. He steps closer, his arm looping around her waist almost instinctively.

Unconsciously, she leans into the touch, her shoulder brushing against his chest. “It’s weird,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, “that we didn’t know each other two months ago.”

Drew’s lips curve into a faint smile, though his eyes remain thoughtful. “Really weird,” he concedes, his voice low and tinged with something she can’t quite place. He’s slightly buzzed from the wine, the edges of his thoughts blurring, but there’s a clarity in this moment that feels undeniable. “But I’m glad it’s two months later.”

Y/N tilts her head, studying him. The faintest hint of a smile plays on her lips, but there’s a question in her eyes, one she doesn’t voice. Instead, she says, “You’re not so bad yourself, Drew. For a guy who hates Joe Burrow.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t hate him. I just… don’t get the obsession.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” she teases, her tone light but her gaze steady.

“Maybe,” he admits, surprising himself. His hand shifts slightly against her waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her blouse. “Or maybe I'm just more of a Patrick Mahomes type of guy.”

Y/N’s breath catches, just for a moment, before she laughs softly, the sound mingling with the cool night air. “Careful, Drew. You're talking about my boyfriend's worst enemy.”

“I am,” he laughs, his voice dropping lower. “But I’ll let you decide if I mean it.”

She looks at him then. “You’re full of surprises,” she says finally, her voice soft but steady. “I’ll give you that.”

Drew’s smile deepens, and he doesn’t pull away. “Stick around, Y/N. You might find there’s more where that came from.”

She returns from Cincinnati the morning of their second-to-last script reading, the “J” necklace still clinging to her neck like a stubborn reminder.

Nonetheless, in the days leading up to Mumbai, dinners at Drew’s become a regular occurrence. Every other night, Y/N shows up with something to contribute to the table: a bottle of wine, a box of pastries, a six-pack of beer, a flour-dusted baguette wrapped in paper, or even a basket of fresh fruit.

Sometimes, Madelyn joins them, and the conversation flows effortlessly, like blood through veins. But more often than not, Y/N excuses herself early, citing a late-night or early-morning flight back to Cincinnati. Drew pretends he doesn’t care, though the empty chair beside him feels heavier than it should.

Other times, when Madelyn is out with her boyfriend and the other Maddie isn’t bombarding Drew with texts—asking him to dine with her, catch a movie, or join her at the theater—or when it’s not Sunday, Thursday, or Monday football, Y/N and Drew find themselves alone. On those rare occasions, they chat idly until the wee hours of the morning. The ice in their drinks crackles and melts, diluting the colors of their beers as they delve into childhood dreams, the winding trajectories of their careers, and the shared fears of an industry that chews up and spits out even the brightest stars. They laugh about their management teams, who have long since given up on damage control when it comes to their love lives.

Drew tells her more about Alma—caring, candid Alma—and Chase, his co-star turned best friend. In turn, Y/N opens up about Joe, her voice softening as she speaks.

“It’s not always easy,” she admits, her gaze dropping to her glass. “I mean, he’s amazing—driven, passionate, everything you’d expect from someone like him. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’m competing with football for his attention. And football always wins.”

She also opens up about how the pressure and expectations of both their careers harm their relationship—and the fact that her dad loathes him.

"Keep that to yourself," Y/N adds after a brief lull, her voice softer now. "I’ve never told anyone about it."

"They won’t hear it from me," Drew swears, taking a gulp of his watered-down Pilsner. He doesn’t even tell Chase.

Dharma begins its live shoots three months after the first read-through. Y/N and Drew are scheduled to film in Mumbai for three months, but Alma informs Drew it’s likely they’ll extend to four due to Greta Gerwig’s infamous obsessive compulsiveness. Her actors often end up filming simple scenes over and over for days, all because the director doesn’t think the natural light, the color of a couch, or the overall feeling is quite right.

“Already cleared it with the boss,” Alma shares brightly. She means the head of his management, who happens to adore Drew—as all CEOs adore their biggest star.

“Fine with me,” Drew says with a shrug. “I don’t mind staying in Mumbai a little longer.” He’s worked with far less pleasant directors than Greta before, and a little OCD won’t take the fun out of filming with Y/N.

He’s pleased to discover she feels the same way.

“Let’s press for four months,” Y/N says as they climb into the luxury car waiting for them at the airport. Her voice is calm, almost serene, as though the chaos of screaming fans outside the vehicle doesn’t exist. But Drew barely notices the noise; his attention is fixed on the absence of the “J” around her neck. “I can’t wait to discover India. Have you ever been?”

“Never,” Drew replies, sliding off his sunglasses and running a hand through his hair. He glances at her, a small smile playing on his lips. “But I’m looking forward to it. Especially if you’re the one leading the tour.”

Y/N’s eyes soften.

Quietly, with her voice carrying a warmth that settles deep in his chest, she says. “I think we’ll make a good team, Heartbreak Prince.”

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