The stadium was alive, a sea of glittering lights swaying like stars under the night sky. The air pulsed with energy—tens of thousands of voices, laughter, and cheers blending into one roaring heartbeat. The stage glowed with golden beams, smoke curling at its edges as the band struck up the familiar rhythm that sent the entire crowd screaming.

It was Bruno Mars night.

Fans wore sequined jackets, flashing sunglasses, and neon bracelets, waving their arms in sync to every beat. The scent of popcorn, beer, and perfume lingered in the air, the whole place vibrating with anticipation.

In the very first row, you stood pressed against the barricade. The heat from the stage lights kissed your skin, but your attention was fixed on only one person: Bruno.

He was magnetic, dancing across the stage in that effortless way he always did—charisma pouring from every move, every note. And then, the music shifted, the opening chords of “Locked Out of Heaven” blasting through the speakers. The crowd erupted, jumping and singing, their voices merging into one thunderous choir.

Bruno’s voice carried over them all, rich and electric. Sweat glistened on his forehead under the spotlights as he grinned at the crowd—then his eyes found yours.

Your heart skipped.

As he sang, his movements grew more deliberate, more intimate. He moved closer to the edge of the stage, steps syncing with the beat, his gaze never leaving yours. And then came the line, his voice husky, powerful:

“’Cause your sex takes me to paradise… Yeah, your sex takes me to paradise…”

With each word, he leaned forward, almost as if the lyrics were meant only for you. The crowd screamed louder, feeding off his energy, but in that moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you. He thrusted his hips with playful confidence, pointing in your direction, and the fans around you squealed, realizing who he was looking at.