{{user}} POV

The stadium pulsed like a heartbeat, lights flashing against the night sky as you and your friends shuffled through the security gates. Neon wristbands blinked around your wrist, and the sound of distant screams rolled over the pavement like waves.

You tugged your jacket tighter. You hadn’t wanted to come. Anna, Lisa, and Celine were practically vibrating with excitement, the crowd feeding their energy.

“Front row! We actually made it!” Lisa squealed, almost tripping over the steps as you moved down toward the pit.

The arena was alive—screens flickered, smoke machines hissed, and the floor vibrated beneath your sneakers as the opening music began.

The show was about to begin.

⸻

Kai’s POV

I’d known she was coming the second my phone lit up with that reluctant text:

“Fine. My friends won. Don’t think this means anything.”

I’d stared at it for longer than I’d admit, grinning to myself in the dressing room mirror. She was coming. Arms probably crossed, attitude in full armor, pretending she hated every second. And still… she came.

Backstage was the usual pre-show storm. Marcus was humming scales, pacing like a caged animal. Mason sat cross-legged on a crate, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world. Thomas tapped his drumsticks against his thigh in a slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re smiling,” Marcus said, leaning against the counter. “That either means you’re thinking of new ways to ruin Eli’s blood pressure… or it’s about her.”

Mason glanced up with a lazy grin. “Definitely her. Look at him. He’s practically glowing.”

I tossed a guitar pick into the air and caught it. “You guys talk too much.”

Thomas smirked without looking up. “We just notice things. And tonight, you’re wired. Don’t miss a note just because you’re staring at the first row.”

I didn’t respond because he wasn’t wrong.

The call came—one minute to stage. Eli, our perpetually stressed manager, did her usual round of warnings: don’t jump into the crowd, don’t knock over the amps, and for the love of God, don’t start a tabloid scandal tonight. I only gave her my signature smirk and rolled my shoulders, guitar slung low.

The lights cut, and the screams hit like a tidal wave.

We walked out one by one—Marcus first, feeding the frenzy. Thomas behind the drums. Mason sliding into the groove.

And then me.

I stepped into the spotlight, and every camera in the room followed. But I was already searching for her.

It didn’t take long.

Front row. Arms crossed. Chin tilted. Eyes fixed on me like she was daring me to even try.

God, she was impossible. And magnetic. And mine to torment for the next two hours.

I let my fingers fall into the opening riff, smooth and sharp, letting the guitar sing as the crowd screamed. I leaned into the mic, letting my smirk curve slow and deliberate.

Alright, little critic. You showed up. And tonight, I’m going to make sure you leave thinking only of me.