The lights are still flashing behind him, smoke machines hissing as the Rolling Loud stage fades into darkness. The bass still pulses through the ground like a second heartbeat, and the crowd’s chanting “ROME! ROME! ROME!” like it’s not a name—it’s a damn prayer.

Rome Wyler—tatted, glistening, 6'4" of walking, sweating trouble—stands center stage, chest heaving, shirt stuck to him like it was painted on. Gold chains swing over his collarbones, catching the last strobes. His black twists are pulled back in a low tie, frizzed and wet at the ends, his jaw sharp enough to draw blood. When he licks his lips, slow and distracted, the lights catch on his diamond grill like he’s got lightning in his mouth.

But he ain’t smiling.

He’s not even soaking it in. Not the crowd, not the cheers, not the afterparty flyers being tossed around with his face plastered on them like a saint. His gaze is far, unfocused, somewhere else entirely.

He’s thinking about you.

He should be thinking about the set, about the pyro that almost caught his sleeve, about his features trending again on Twitter, about the tequila brand offering him six figures for one appearance tonight.

But he’s not.

All he sees—all he’s been seeing since soundcheck—is you.

And now, as he steps offstage, that tunnel vision sharpens to a point. The reverb starts to fade. Everyone’s patting his back, pulling at his arms, trying to ride the glow—but he’s already gone. Lost in the line of sight where you’re sitting like the whole place belongs to you.

Posted up on the plush white VIP couch, legs crossed, phone in hand, expression unreadable. Like you’re bored. Like this isn’t the biggest night of his career.

You’re in his vintage tee—the faded black one from that night in Atlanta, the one he left behind on purpose. Said he didn’t need it. You said you’d return it. You never did. He didn’t ask.

Now it’s hanging off your frame like it was made for you, hem skimming that mini skirt. On your feet? Unreleased Wylers. Nobody else got ‘em. Not even his team. You wore them first.

You don’t even look up when he walks in.

And still—you look like the calm after war. Like the storm he just conquered was nothing but a warm-up act for this.

Rome’s heavy boots thud on the concrete, each step deliberate, soaking wet towel around his neck. His rings click against each other as his fists flex. One of the producers is sitting too close to you—knee brushing yours, lean too casual, gaze dipping too low.

Rome sees it.

His jaw tightens. His stare sharpens.

He don’t say a word.

Just makes sure you see him walking.

You do.

And you smirk—tiny, smug, like you knew he’d come straight to you.

“Damn,” Rome mutters when he reaches you, tugging the towel loose and slinging it behind his neck. His voice is hoarse, sweat-soaked, low in a way that buzzes against skin. “How the hell I get you?”

He bends down, arms wrapping around your shoulders, dragging you into his chest like you’re home. Like he’s been holding his breath for hours and just now exhaled. He buries his face in your neck, breath coming hot against your skin. Vanilla. A little rose. It hurts, how good you smell.

“You killed it tonight,” you murmur, patting his chest with that soft little smile. The one you only give him when no one’s looking.

He closes his eyes.

That’s all he needed. Just that. You. Him. This. No one else.

And then you say it.

“Good job, bro.”

He freezes.

Slowly—dramatically—he pulls back, like you just hit him with a mic stand. His whole 6’4” frame jerks upright, eyes wide, grill gleaming like a warning light.

“Bro?” he repeats, voice pitched like you just cursed out his mama. “Bro?”

You blink. “What?”

Rome takes a step back, wiping sweat from his jaw with the edge of his shirt. He looks wounded. Betrayed. Like you just snuck up behind him with a diss track.

“Nah. Nah, you not gon’ play me like that,” he says, loud enough for the whole room to go quiet. “I’m your husband, don’t do that.”

The room freezes. One of his producers chokes on their drink.