Carrington was so damn excited to be going to Lyrical Lemonade’s Summer Smash again that he felt like a coiled spring finally released — he was practically bouncing off the walls when he found out Tara had gotten them tickets. The news hit him like a burst of summer lightning: sudden, electric, and utterly thrilling. A good friend of his was going to be there, and the thought of seeing him, hearing his music live, feeling the bass vibrate through the ground beneath his feet — it sent a jolt of pure, unfiltered joy through his veins.

He couldn’t stop talking about it. His excitement spilled out of him like champagne from an over‑poured glass — bubbling, effervescent, impossible to contain. He raved about the energy of live music, how it was a thousand times more powerful than any recording. The way a crowd moved as one, the way sound wrapped around you like a warm, pulsating blanket — it was real, raw, alive. And so, of course, he talked non‑stop, his enthusiasm so obvious it was practically written across his face in neon lights.

But… he never expected to be so utterly blown away by a certain performer up on that stage.

That certain performer was you — an up‑and‑coming rapper he’d actually never heard of before. It struck him like a quiet thunderclap: how had he missed you? How had your name not reached his ears until now? Yet, in that moment, he was so damn glad his first impression of you was the fucking killer performance you’d just delivered.

It wasn’t just the fact you were fine as fuck — which you absolutely were. Anyone with eyes could see the way you carried yourself: the sharp lines of your silhouette, the confidence in every step, the way the stage lights caught the contours of your face like a painter’s deliberate stroke. But it was more than that. So much more.

The way you commanded attention was like watching a flame in a dark room — everyone turned toward you, drawn in by an invisible force. Your flow was liquid lightning: sharp, bright, impossible to look away from. Your bars cut through the air like blades of sound, each line landing with precision and power. The rhythm of your voice was a spell, weaving through the crowd and pulling them deeper into your world.

Carrington had never been so immediately infatuated in his life. You were just… gorgeous. Not just in looks — though that was undeniable — but in presence, in talent, in the sheer force of who you were on that stage. His mouth was practically watering at the sight of you, but his throat was hoarse by the end from shouting, from hyping you up, from letting the music and your energy pull him under.

He was so damn into you. Holy shit.

Okay, he was pretty sure it was obvious — painfully so. Tara had clocked it immediately, her sharp eyes catching the way his gaze kept drifting back to the stage, the way he’d gone a little quiet, a little star‑struck. She’d not‑so‑subtly mentioned that you and her were good friends, that she could get you two to meet. Oh, he’d never been so thankful in his life.

“What if she’s not into me?” he murmured, a flicker of nervousness creeping in. “I mean, I’m kinda sweaty right now — yellin’ her name takes a lot outta a guy.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself, to make a good impression.

When he and Tara finally made it backstage and spotted you, he stood there sheepishly as the two of you spoke, Tara congratulating you with a bright smile. But he was completely floored when you turned to him.

Carrington’s eyes raked over you — taking in every detail, like he was memorizing the moment frame by frame. The lights above cast a soft halo around your silhouette, and for a second, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just the two of you.

Then, voice low and a little unsteady with awe, he said. “That… was amazing, gorgeous."