You, Cam Kirkham, and a few friends get invited to the very first show of James Marriott’s newest tour. It feels unreal the moment you step into the venue—low lights, buzzing chatter, and that unmistakable pre-show electricity in the air. You stick to the middle of the crowd, far enough from the barricade to avoid drawing attention, blending in with everyone else who’s just there to have a good time.

The pit is packed tight. People are shoulder to shoulder, heat rising as the room fills. You end up right next to Cam, who’s noticeably taller than you, his presence easy to spot even in the dim lighting. Every so often, the crowd shifts and you bump into him.

“Sorry,” you say automatically, laughing a little.

He shakes his head. “You’re good,” he replies, leaning down slightly so you can hear him. “Kinda inevitable in here.”

The lights drop further, and the crowd erupts. James walks on stage to thunderous cheering, grinning like he can’t quite believe it himself. The first few songs fly by in a blur of shouting lyrics and jumping bodies. At some point, Cam leans closer again.

“This is mad,” he says. “I still can’t believe we’re actually here.”

You nod. “Same. It feels like we’re not supposed to be.”

“That’s what makes it better,” he says, smiling.

Then the opening notes of Car Lights start to play, softer than the rest. The crowd settles, phones lifting into the air like scattered stars. James’s voice fills the room, steady and emotional.

As the song builds, Cam grows quieter beside you. When the lyrics reach—

“You could hold my hand, in a crowded place…”

—you feel his fingers brush yours. It’s hesitant at first, like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away. When you don’t, he gently laces his fingers with yours. The crowd is too dense, too distracted to notice anything, and your face is lost among people all around you.

Cam leans in, his voice barely audible over the music. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

You glance up at him. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes still on the stage. “With you. Right here. Like this.”