There's a moment right before you fall asleep when your brain runs wild — and mine was running a full-on Olympic marathon.
Because I'd just had my first real date with Adrian Ryder.
And also my first celebrity escape from a swarm of fans.
And possibly my first official panic attack in a pizzeria parking lot.
But the thing that really kept me awake?
He held my hand the entire ride home.
And he didn't let go.
—
The next morning, I woke up to a text from him.
> Adrian: Did you survive the paparazzi stampede?
Me: Barely. Pretty sure I have garlic knot-induced trauma.
Adrian: Worth it tho
Adrian: Wanna see something cool tonight?
I stared at the message for a full minute before replying.
> Me: "Cool" like skydiving or "cool" like Netflix and pizza?
Adrian: Somewhere in the middle. Wear sneakers. No heels.
Which was how I found myself, four hours later, standing in front of the university's closed-down theater building with Adrian, staring up at a "RESTRICTED ACCESS" sign.
He turned to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"You brought me to a haunted building?" I asked, arms folded.
"Not haunted," he said. "Just... retired."
"So we're trespassing?"
"Technically," he replied, pulling out a key. "But it's fine. I may have charmed the night janitor with backstage passes last year."
He pushed open the creaky side door, and we stepped into darkness. I instantly regretted the choice of black leggings — I felt like a shadow in a horror movie.
But then he flicked a switch, and the stage lights buzzed to life.
I gasped.
The auditorium was old and dusty, but beautiful in its way. Rows of empty seats stretched into the dark. The wooden stage had faint chalk marks still drawn for some long-forgotten production.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"My favorite escape," he said, hopping up onto the stage. "Before the fame, before the noise... I used to sneak in here and practice guitar when no one was around."
I joined him on stage, heart fluttering. There was something magical about the place — like it had absorbed dreams and never let them go.
"Do you still come here?" I asked.
He nodded. "When I need to remember who I was before I became Ace Ryder."
I didn't say anything, just sat beside him, legs dangling off the edge of the stage. Silence settled around us, thick but comfortable.
Then he pulled out a guitar from behind one of the curtains. Of course he had a guitar stashed there. Of course.
"I wrote something," he said, eyes not quite meeting mine. "It's rough. But… I think you'll like it."
And then he played.
The first notes were soft, slow, like raindrops on glass. His voice followed — husky, low, with a tremble I'd never heard in his music before.
> She was a whisper in a crowded room
A spark before the fire bloomed
I didn't know that I was missing air
Until she smiled and it was everywhere
I stared at him, every part of me stilling. He wasn't Ace Ryder up there. Not the guy with five million followers and a fan club that sold out arenas.
He was just a boy.
A boy who liked an ordinary girl enough to write her a song.
By the time he hit the last line — "I'd trade the lights for one more night with her" — I was blinking back tears.
"I... wow," I whispered.
He smiled shyly. "Too much?"
"It's perfect."
He set the guitar aside. "I've never written something like that before. Not even for the industry. But with you... it's different."
I swallowed hard. "Adrian... why me?"
He didn't flinch.
"Because you don't want anything from me. You don't care about the fame. You call me out when I'm being ridiculous. You see me, Zara — the real me. And honestly? That scares the crap out of me."
My heart hammered.
"It scares me too," I whispered.
And just like that, he leaned in.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no fireworks or orchestras or slow-mo effects. Just warm lips brushing mine. Soft. Gentle. Real.
My first kiss with Adrian Ryder wasn't wild or cinematic.
It was safe.
And somehow, that made it perfect.
—
We stayed in that theater for hours. Talking. Laughing. Sharing secrets like we were running out of time.
I learned his favorite cereal was Cocoa Puffs.
He learned I once tripped onstage during a middle school spelling bee and said the word "accident" wrong.
We were still talking when my phone buzzed. A message from mimi, my roommate.
> Mimi: Girl... you're trending on X. With Ace Ryder. 👀
I blinked.
"No, no, no," I muttered, pulling it up.
And there it was.
A blurry picture of us leaving the pizzeria. Another of Adrian shielding me as fans swarmed. One even caught the moment he opened the car door for me.
The caption?
> "Who is Ace Ryder's mystery girl?? 👀 Fans say new romance might be brewing!"
I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
"They found me," I whispered.
Adrian was already beside me, phone out, jaw tight.
"I'm so sorry, Zara," he said. "I thought we were careful. I didn't think—"
"I know," I cut in. "It's not your fault."
But even as I said it, a knot twisted in my stomach.
Because this wasn't just about one post. This was a storm waiting to hit.
—
By the next day, I had over a hundred follow requests. My tiny Instagram, where I usually posted cat memes and awkward selfies, was suddenly under siege.
Someone had even found my TikTok and left comments like:
> "So you're the one stealing our man?"
"Is this a PR stunt or are you fr?"
And worse. Much worse.
I shut my phone off.
By lunchtime, whispers followed me across campus. I couldn't take ten steps without someone glancing at me, nudging their friend, or trying to snap a photo
Mimi, to her credit, was ready to fight someone. "Give me five minutes and a pair of flip-flops. I'll shut this entire school down."
But I didn't feel like fighting.
I felt like hiding.
So I did.
Skipped classes. Locked myself in our dorm room. Curled up in bed with a blanket pulled over my head and music blasting in my ears.
I ignored Adrian's texts.
> Adrian: Zara, talk to me.
Adrian: Please don't shut me out.
Adrian: I'm so sorry. I'll fix this.
But how do you fix being exposed?
How do you put toothpaste back in the tube?
—
It wasn't until nightfall that I heard a knock at the door.
Soft. Hesitant.
I opened it — and there he was. Hoodie up. Sunglasses on. A bouquet of tulips in one hand. And a brown paper bag in the other.
"Hey," he said.
I stared at him for a moment, then stepped aside to let him in.
He handed me the flowers, then the bag. Inside was… cinnamon dessert pizza.
"Peace offering," he said.
I cracked a tiny smile.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm better now that you're here."