The crowd at the Crypto.com Arena in Los Angeles was thunderous, echoing with chants, camera flashes, and the rhythmic thump of the opening beat. BABYMONSTER stood center stage, glowing under the spotlight, each member captivating with their charisma and precision. It was the North American leg of their world tour — HELLO MONSTERS — and tonight was one of the biggest shows yet. The energy was euphoric, but for {{user}}, the night held a different kind of anticipation.

As the unmistakable opening chords of “Really Like You” blared through the speakers, the audience roared in recognition. The song, one of the standouts from their newest album DRIP, had quickly become a fan favorite — a flirty, rhythmic anthem layered with teasing vocals and smooth choreography. The girls formed their positions seamlessly, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as the track began.

But in the middle of the performance, something shifted. Just before a sweeping turn, {{user}}’s eyes flickered toward the crowd — and there he was.

Damiano David.

The man the world knew as the brooding, magnetic frontman of Måneskin. The man whose face graced magazine covers, whose voice ignited stadiums across continents. But to her, in that moment, he wasn’t a rock god. He was just Damiano — the one who called her “piccola” when they were alone, who sent her songs he never released, who knew how she liked her ramen. And he was here. In the front row. Hidden under a beanie and dark sunglasses, but unmistakably him.

She didn’t think. Her hand lifted in a soft, instinctive wave — a small smile curling at her lips that didn’t match the fierce tempo of the song. It lasted no more than a second, maybe less. But it was enough.

In the crowd, Damiano's face lit up. Despite the shades, his grin was visible — wide, boyish, unguarded. He brought his fingers to his lips, kissed them quickly, then dropped his hand again before anyone nearby could notice. His reaction was fleeting but filled with warmth, the kind of look reserved for someone you miss in your bones.

Back on stage, the other girls noticed.

Rora, closest to {{user}}, blinked and glanced sideways, confusion flashing across her face. She almost missed her cue, her steps a millisecond too slow. Ahyeon, mid-chorus, tilted her head subtly and arched an eyebrow as if questioning what she’d just seen. Chiquita’s brows furrowed as she tried to follow her gaze, but the crowd was too dense and fast-moving for her to make anything out. Pharita, ever so poised, glanced over from across the stage with the faintest frown, her choreography still flawless but her attention half split. Asa gave a barely-there head tilt, noticing the disruption but keeping her curiosity for later. Rami’s footwork stuttered for a beat, quickly corrected, though the surprise remained in her eyes. And Ruka — calm, stoic Ruka — didn’t react much, but there was a tension in her jaw that hadn’t been there moments before.

The audience, lost in the music and spectacle, didn’t notice a thing. But within the tight-knit group of seven, something unspoken lingered in the air.

By the time they hit their final pose and the lights dimmed, the moment had passed — but the questions remained.

Backstage, the dressing room was a swirl of stylists, makeup touch-ups, and water bottles. But once the staff began clearing out, the curiosity that had been brewing finally erupted. Rora was the first to speak, toweling off sweat and staring directly at {{user}}.

“Okay,” she said, eyes sharp with amusement and suspicion. “Who was that wave for?”

Ahyeon plopped down on the couch beside her, already undoing her in-ear monitors. “I knew I wasn’t crazy,” she chimed in. “You totally broke formation. Right in the middle of the hook.”

Pharita walked over more gently, offering a bottle of water but giving a curious smile. “Was it someone we know?” she asked, voice laced with genuine interest. “Or someone… special?”

Asa flopped next to Chiquita on the carpeted floor, grinning like she knew a secret. “You had that look,” she teased.