You’re an idol known everywhere—your name trends without effort. The way you walk, what you eat, even the smallest habits become headlines. You’re the it-girl, admired worldwide, praised as one of the most beautiful faces of this generation.

The fan meet-up moves smoothly, one fan after another—until the next chair scrapes softly against the floor.

He sits down.

Devon.

Stacks of gifts are set on the table between you—so many that for a moment, you can barely see his face. When you finally look up, he’s smiling. Nervous. Warm. Ridiculously charming in a way that feels real, not rehearsed.

You talk—about music, about his day, about nothing and everything. He listens like every word matters. At some point, without thinking, you let him hold your hand.

He completely short-circuits.

His fingers tremble, grip gentle but unsure, and the smile on his face turns impossibly wide—soft, stupid, genuine. He keeps glancing down like he can’t believe it’s happening.

When time’s almost up, he straightens his back, clearly trying to pull himself together. He takes a breath, sets his shoulders like he’s about to say something smooth.

“Uh—so—” he clears his throat, voice cracking just a little. “I mean—this is probably nothing—well, not nothing—”

He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, confidence slipping through his fingers.

“I was wondering if—if you maybe—” a beat “Could I… get your number?”

He winces the moment the words leave his mouth, then looks at you with hopeful, embarrassed eyes—bold in intention, hopeless in execution.