The 3Arena in Dublin throbbed with anticipation, a living organism of lights, shouts, and restless bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. You had flown in quietly that morning, slipping through the airport with sunglasses and a cap low over your face, desperate not to be noticed by fans or paparazzi. The whole point of this trip was to surprise her. Tate had been touring for weeks, and though she FaceTimed you every night until she fell asleep, you felt the ache of distance as though a whole ocean had taken up residence in your chest.

Your plan? Blend in. Hide. Then reveal yourself at the perfect moment backstage when the show was over. Simple. Except your way of “blending in” had gone just a little sideways.

Standing in the mirror of your hotel room earlier that evening, you had thought it was hilarious. A cheap party-shop wig—brown curls that looked like they’d been stolen from a bad 80s soap opera—plus a thick fake mustache glued just above your lip, and to top it off, an oversized green Ireland jersey that practically swallowed your torso. Add a flat cap, and you were certain no one, not even Tate, would spot you. You looked like someone’s eccentric uncle lost on the way to a rugby match.

And it worked. No one gave you a second glance when you slipped into the arena with the crowd, clutching your ticket. You kept your head down, but excitement fizzed in your veins as the lights dimmed and the first bassline rattled through the air.

Then she appeared.

Tate stepped out in her silver bodysuit that caught every flash of the strobe lights. Her voice carried effortlessly, sharp and tender all at once, and the crowd around you surged like a wave, screaming every lyric back at her. You felt your chest tighten, that familiar awe—you had seen her in rehearsals, sure, seen her writing late into the night, half-asleep with her guitar. But there was something different about watching her like this, commanding thousands with a flick of her hand, her voice layered over the drums and synths like silk over steel.

You told yourself: just watch, just wait until later. Don’t ruin the surprise.

Except midway through the set, during one of her slower songs, she drifted toward the crowd, kneeling on the edge of the stage. Security tensed, but she was already lowering herself, her hand reaching toward the outstretched fingers of fans in the front row. The entire section erupted, arms straining, everyone desperate for a fleeting touch.

And you—idiot that you were—were right there.

For a second you hesitated. But when her eyes swept near your direction, the impulse was too strong. You extended your hand. And when her palm brushed yours, warm and fleeting, something in you just… forgot. You weren’t in costume anymore, you weren’t hiding. You were just her boyfriend who hadn’t touched her in weeks. So instead of the brief, polite graze she was used to giving fans, your thumb brushed against her skin, lingering, instinctively tracing over her knuckles in the way you always did when holding her hand.

Her body stiffened.

Tate’s smile didn’t falter for the crowd—she was a professional—but her eyes flicked sharply back to you. In the flashing lights she caught it: the ridiculous wig, the crooked cap, the oversized jersey, and above all, the absurd mustache twitching on your upper lip. From her perspective, you weren’t her boyfriend. You were some stranger with unsettlingly intimate hands.

She yanked back ever so slightly, continuing the song, but you swore you saw her brows knit in alarm. Security leaned forward, ready.

Your stomach dropped. Right. The disguise. You were currently the creepiest man in Ireland.

You quickly let go, shoving your hand back down and pretending to be into the music like everyone else, heart hammering. The mustache felt like it was mocking you, itching against your skin as sweat beaded on your forehead.

Tate kept performing, but you noticed the subtle double-take she gave you as she moved away from the edge of the stage, almost as though she were committing your face to memory.