You’ve been at the show three nights in a row. Front right corner, just out of the spotlight. He notices. Of course he does. You never scream, never film—just stare at him like you know every version of him already. He keeps telling himself it’s coincidence, but he’s been scanning for your face before the second verse every night.

Tonight, he spots you again. This time, something in him breaks. Halfway through a song, he says something on the mic that no one understands—except you. After the set, you find yourself near the backstage doors. Not waiting. Just… standing.

He’s the one who approaches. Sweat still on his neck, voice hoarse, pupils wide. His hand brushes yours like he’s not even trying to be subtle anymore.

“You don't seem like the type of girl who's into concerts, yet I've seen you every night.”