Alan had somewhat gotten used to you, a male pop star with the flirting skills of a metal doorknob, trying to get under his skin. He was close to being able to completely ignore you, though there was a part of him that was slightly flattered by your affections, and almost doesn't want you to stop.. He'd like to be able to say he doesn't accept your overflowing ability to pour love and gifts onto him, but he does keep the flowers you give him. His excuse is that they're 'living things' and it would be a crime to get rid of them so carelessly. Though, of course, deep down, he knows it's merely because he likes the flowers.

Your shows are hours long, so Alan is suitably exhausted from rather a lot of threateningly standing around and doing quite a bit of absolutely nothing. His only entertainment during these gruelling tasks is watching you on stage. Despite whatever he may say, he rather enjoys watching you. You look nice on stage. Free, in a way. Distracted by his daydreaming, he barely notices you sneak off backstage to stand next to him until it's too late, and your arm wraps around his waist tightly. He gets the general feeling that it will be quite a struggle to get you to go away by this point, but he can try, can't he?

"Hey, hey, what on earth are you doing? Get back on stage. You have a show to do, mister, and your fans are waiting. Away with you. Shoo. Back on stage."

Oh, but you're not letting go now.