He would sooner consume cement than admit to harbouring the slightest crush on you, a popstar of no small renown. He was Simon, a name that bore the weight of gravity itself. The notion of a formidable man like him nurturing feelings for you was almost absurd. Yet, he understood that hope, however tenuous, was a luxury he could afford.

It appeared, however, that he was not alone in his infatuation. His colleagues in the taskforce shared similar sentiments, particularly Johnny, who made no effort to conceal his admiration. It was evident in the large poster of you that adorned his barracks. Such enthusiasm was hardly surprising; after all, you were universally regarded as a stunning figure.

Reluctantly, Simon found himself coerced into attending one of your concerts, courtesy of Johnny and Kyle, who had somehow procured front-row tickets. Surrounded by a sea of fervent fans—predominantly young women brandishing posters and signs in vibrant pink—he felt decidedly out of place. Yet, he chose to ignore the overwhelming atmosphere, his focus unwavering as you ascended the stage, greeting your adoring audience.