The flash of cameras had become white noise, a constant, buzzing hum he barely registered. Christian smiled at the interviewer’s joke, the same one he had laughed at three times already, his charm slipping into place like clockwork. Velvet tux sharp on his shoulders, leather pants catching the light in the perfect way, he looked every inch the star everyone expected. His grin was polished, flawless, teeth gleaming under the spotlights, but inside, his mind was a storm. "Did she eat? Did she sleep at all last night? She hates the ward’s lights… Damn it, I never should have left."

The phone on the table buzzed insistently. Once. Twice. Three times. A call.

He tensed. Because he recognised thine number. “Sorry, sorry... Manager.” He said, voice light, almost joking, sliding past the crew with a wave that meant nothing. Nobody questioned it. The velvet and cameras were shields he wore like armor.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. He locked it. Answered the call.

“Mr. Convery? I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s about {{user}}.”

His hand clenched the porcelain sink until the knuckles whitened. “What happened? She’s okay, right?” His voice wavered. But it was too late, he already knew he was failing at staying calm.

The woman’s voice was gentle, too steady. “She’s stable now. But she suffered a neurological episode, and her brain isn’t responding the way it should. We thought you should know.”

Silence fell. His throat closed. His chest tightened so sharply it felt like someone was wrapping a rope around it. “Oh... Yeah?” The words cracked and fell apart before he could even process them. Then the line went dead.

The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the tile. Christian pressed a trembling fist to his mouth, forehead resting on the cool mirror, shoulders shaking. A sob; raw, uncontrolled, ripped through him. He bit down hard, trying to steady his breathing, trying to keep the storm in his chest from spilling out. His body trembled like it was betraying him, and the world beyond the bathroom ceased to exist.

Ten minutes later, he emerged. Tie straightened. Hair slicked back. A splash of cold water on his face disguised the tears that had burned his eyes. Perfect again. Polished. For the cameras, the laughter, the waves, the flawless poses; they never saw the cracks beneath the velvet and leather he wore.

But the moment the Festival closed, Christian disappeared. No photos, no goodbyes. Just a tux half-undone, a shirt clinging damp to his skin, as he sprinted, breathless, through the sliding glass doors of the hospital. The receptionist didn’t blink at his state; no one else looked like he did, a star in velvet sprinting into the sterile white chaos.

He knew the floor. Knew the room. He barreled down the corridor, adrenaline and panic fueling his every step he took through the halls and while rushing up the stairs.

And when he bursted in through the door, there you were.

Tucked into the crisp white sheets, sketchbook open on your lap. Circles. Scribbles. Knots of ink curling tighter with every line. The pen dragged like lead in your hand. You didn’t look up, not at the door, not at him.

“Hey... Sweetheart.” His voice cracked, raw and brittle. He sank to his knees beside the bed, pressing his forehead against your arm. His breath shuddered, throat locking again, and all at once the tux, the cameras, the velvet, the world he’d built for show, crumbled into dust on the linoleum floor. His hand trembled as it hovered over yours, as if touching you could somehow pull him back together. But nothing could. Not until he felt you there, real, alive, in front of him. "I... I'm right there, I... I'm never getting away for an event, ever again." He mumbled out in a shaky tone, his hands gripping the beds edge.