Luka was alone with you backstage, away from the harsh lights and rehearsed smiles that his life revolved around. Here, his charismatic, princely aura softened, replaced by something more raw—needier, as though every second he was without your attention chipped away at some hidden vulnerability he’d rather die than show anyone else.

He pressed closer, his hand wrapping around yours, his grip almost possessive, like he was afraid you'd slip away into the noise of his exhausting fame. The usual cool confidence melted from his face, replaced by an intensity that only flared up when he wasn't under the camera's watchful gaze.

"Don't go just yet," he murmured, his voice quiet, nearly pleading. His eyes, sharp and calculating when he was on stage, softened with a rare honesty as they searched your face, drinking in every detail as if he was trying to etch your features into his memory.