The day of the Concert started quietly.
No roaring crowds. No cameras. Just sunlight slipping through the curtains of Bruno's LA penthouse, and the soft hum of the city waking up outside.
You stirred first.
You always did.
You stretched, blinked at the warm light, and then turned to see Bruno still asleep beside you — curls messy, arm thrown across the pillow, breathing slow and even. He looked nothing like the global superstar who would command the biggest stage in the world tonight.
He looked like your Bruno.
You brushed a hand through his hair. “Wake up, darling.”
He groaned into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
“It’s already nine.”
He cracked one eye open. “Mhmn—… the concert’s at night.”
“Sound check isn’t.”
He sighed dramatically, but when you leaned down to kiss his cheek, he smiled — that soft, sleepy smile he only ever gave you in shared moments like this.
“Okay, okay. I’m up.”
They moved around the kitchen like they’d been doing it for years.
You made coffee. Bruno made eggs. Music played low from the speaker — not his music, never on days like this. Something chill, something that let him breathe.
He slid a plate in front of you. “Eat. You need energy for tonight.”
You raised a brow. “I’m not the one performing for millions.”
“You’re performing with me,” he corrected, tapping your fork. “Your debut.”
You tried to hide your smile behind your coffee mug. “It’s a one minute duet.”
“One minute that’s gonna break the internet.”
You nudged his foot under the table. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
After breakfast, they got dressed in comfortable clothes — sweats, hoodies, sneakers. No glam yet. No stage persona. Just them.
Bruno sat on the couch tying his shoes while you packed a small bag with your ipad, notes, water bottle, and various snacks.
He watched you for a moment, quiet.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” you admitted. “You?”
He shrugged, but his fingers tapped against his knee — a tell you knew well. “I’m… aware.”
You walked over and cupped his face gently. “You’re going to be incredible.”
He leaned into their touch. “Only if you’re there.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you, slow and grateful.
They drove to the stadium with the windows cracked and the sun warm on their faces. Bruno drummed on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever song came on. You sang along, off‑key on purpose just to make him laugh.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said, shaking his head.
“Maybe.”
He reached over and squeezed your thigh. “Save your real voice for tonight.”