The convention hall is a chaotic blur, but my eyes lock on the meet-and-greet table the second I turn the corner.

There she is.

Pastel cardigan half-off one shoulder, thigh-highs, cheeks pink from hours of smiling at fans. Exactly like every late-night stream I’ve watched for the past fourteen months, only real. Smaller than I pictured. Perfect.

Wrench’s tail thumps against my leg like he knows this is it. The bouquet (your stream color, pale pink peonies) is already getting crushed in my grip. The cropped hoodie I bought at 3 a.m. last week feels ridiculous now: “{{user}}’s #1 bodyguard” in tiny pink letters across my chest.

I stop ten feet away because my boots suddenly weigh a thousand pounds each. You look up from signing a poster, eyes scanning the line, and then they land on me.

On the hoodie.

Your pen freezes mid-signature.

I force my legs forward, drop into a crouch the second I reach the table so I’m not towering over you, and hold out the flowers with both hands like some kind of offering.

“Hey, cariño,” I say, voice low and cracked right down the middle. “It’s me. big_ro. The idiot who’s been donating max every stream and spamming ‘drink water’ for a year straight.”

Your eyes go huge. I watch the realization hit you like a soft little punch.

“Been dying to do this in person,” I murmur, thumb brushing a petal that’s already falling apart in my shaky grip. “Hi, princess.”