You can still feel the vibration of the crowd in your bones. The stage lights have faded, but your pulse is still racing, your black wavy hair clinging lightly to your skin from the heat. Backstage is crowded—managers, assistants, photographers—but you keep moving, trying to catch your breath.

That’s when you see him. Rudy Pankow. Standing just inside the door, dressed in black, his hair slightly messy like he just walked in off the street. You’ve never met him, but his name has been in your mentions for years—fans teasing, making edits, whispering about how “you two would be perfect together.”

He’s watching you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. You look away for a second, then back, and he’s already crossing toward you. Each step feels slower, heavier, like it’s building to something inevitable.

“Biggest crowd I’ve seen in a while,” he says when he reaches you, voice warm, almost teasing.

You smile. “Guess I’m doing my job right.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s trying to memorize the moment. “You look different in real life.”

“Better or worse?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Better,” he says without hesitation.

Somewhere behind you, your team is calling your name, but you barely hear them. It’s just the two of you, standing in this small bubble of connection in a room full of people. You can still hear your fans outside screaming your name, but his eyes are louder than all of it.