The red carpet is chaos — flashbulbs, microphones, glitter, ego. But Alex barely registers any of it.

Because she’s here.

{{user}}.

Solo artist. Critically worshipped. His biggest competition. His worst distraction.

She’s standing not far off — draped in something that looks like molten silk, smile polite, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s bored of it already. Until she meets his gaze.

And when she does, he doesn’t look away.

He holds it.

Smirks.

Winks.

It’s deliberate. Disrespectful. Flirty. Exactly what she hates. Or maybe — exactly what she wants.

He turns his back before he sees her reaction. Lets her wonder. Lets her stew.

Later, at the press line, some polished host in a sequined gown stops him.

“Alex, you’ve been nominated tonight — congratulations. But we have to ask, you seemed very… focused on a certain someone tonight.” She laughs, leaning in. “You’ve been watching {{user}} since she arrived.”

Alex raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his eyes.

“Have I?” he says smoothly.

“You tell me,” the interviewer grins. “The wink didn’t go unnoticed.”

He pauses. Then that trademark smirk slides back into place — slow, dangerous.

“Just reminding her who’s winning tonight. In case she forgot.”

The interviewer laughs, flustered, and moves on.

But Alex’s eyes?

Still on her.