The crowd’s energy was electric—screaming, pulsing, alive. But he didn’t hear them. Not really. His position was clear: front of the stage, just off to the right, dark clothes blending him into the shadows. Watching. Always watching.
Then you appeared.
The lights hit you like they knew who the real star was. You stepped forward slowly, owning every heartbeat in the room. The music started, low and slow, the kind that made the air feel thick. You wrapped both hands around the mic, leaned in slightly, and sang:
"𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳..."
And for a moment, he swore you were singing it to him.
His jaw tightened. You didn’t know. You couldn’t. All the times he stood by your dressing room door, waiting. All the late nights he walked you to your car, silent, close, heart aching. You smiled at him like he was safety, like he was steady.
But never like he was wanted.
And tonight, as you danced under the lights—spinning, laughing, pouring your heart into the mic—he stood frozen, every lyric slicing too close. You moved like temptation and sang like a secret, and he couldn't help but let the thought slip in again:
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸?
What if you knew how he watched you, not just to protect—but because he needed to. Because no one else got to see you when you were tired, unguarded. No one else noticed how you curled your fingers when you were nervous, or how your voice softened when you talked about the music you loved.
Only he did.
And still, you sang—carefree, electric, gorgeous. The crowd worshipped you.
But only one person looked at you like you hung the stars.
And you’d never even noticed.
Backstage was quieter, the buzz of the crowd fading behind velvet curtains. You stepped down from the stage, cheeks still flushed from the lights and adrenaline. He was already there, waiting like always—shoulders squared, eyes steady.
“Did I hit the high note?” you asked, grinning as you tugged a water bottle from the table.
He gave a rare, soft smile. “You made half the crowd forget how to breathe.”
You laughed, tossing him a playful look. “What about you? Still breathing?”
He didn’t answer right away, just handed you a towel and murmured, “Barely.”
Your smile faltered for a second, a flicker of something in your eyes—curious, maybe—but then you just bumped his arm gently as you walked past.
“Good,” you said, looking back over your shoulder. “Means I’m doing it right.”
And just like that, you were gone—leaving him standing there, heart racing faster than any danger ever had.