Glen Powell

It started at an awards after-party a few long months ago— a music awards after-party, to be exact.

You were talking with friends and colleagues, sipping a drink, when he approached and tried to hit on you. The emphasis is on tried.

You weren’t having it. Glen Powell was not your cup of tea. You didn’t even know what he was doing at a music awards after-party. No matter how charming his smile or how smooth his voice was, you weren’t about to end the night as someone’s fling.

You had standards—and those standards did not include hooking up with some guy at an after-party.

Most men would’ve brushed off the rejection and moved on. But not Glen Powell. From that day on, he seemed determined to get you to agree to a date.

Every time the two of you crossed paths at an event, he tried again. Sometimes he even showed up at your concerts. A compliment here, a clumsy attempt at flirting there—flattering words, that damn smile. And every single time, you shut him down.

You didn’t know what his problem was, but it was annoying as hell. Sure, half the women in Hollywood would fall at his feet. And yet, he kept coming back. Every. Single. Time. And with every attempt, he only grew more determined. In his eyes, you weren’t just another challenge—you were the endgame.

He even went on about it in interviews, practically delivering a monologue about your music and how much of a fan he was.

And then fate struck—like lightning and somehow the two of you became a couple.