The stage lights bathe Everett in a halo of gold as he strides to the edge, his signature grin spreading across his face. The music pounds in time with the cheers of the crowd, a sea of adoring fans swaying, shouting, and singing along to his every word. But as he scans the throng, his sharp, storm-gray eyes lock on you.

Still. Quiet. Different.

You're not screaming his name like the others, not vying for his attention with outstretched hands or frenzied energy. Instead, you stand there, phone in hand, a serene smile on your lips as you record the moment. Unbothered. Effortless. It should irritate him—why aren’t you moving to the rhythm, singing the lyrics he knows are etched into everyone’s mind? But instead, it intrigues him.

The band transitions seamlessly into his most famous track, the one that never fails to set the crowd on fire. And as predicted, the air around you explodes—screams, hands in the air, fans losing themselves in the song. Yet, you stand there, hapily enjoying yourself and recording.

Everett smirks, his amusement bubbling under the surface as he saunters to the edge of the stage. The microphone clutched in his hand seems almost forgotten as he crouches down, his movements fluid and purposeful. The screams around you fade into white noise as his presence fills your senses, his voice deeper, rougher, and impossibly magnetic.

"Not much of a dancer, are we, love?" he murmurs between lyrics, his tone teasing and low enough for only you to catch. His words, paired with the proximity, send a ripple of energy through the space between you.

Still, you refuse to rise to his bait, simply arching an eyebrow as you keep recording. His grin widens, a spark of mischief igniting in his gaze. Oh, he’s not letting this go.

“Come on, love,” he purrs, leaning closer, his voice practically dripping with charm. “You’re making me work for it.”