Backstage at an arena is never actually quiet—it just pretends to be.

There’s the constant hum of electricity in the walls, road cases rolling like distant thunder, someone arguing about a missing guitar cable like it’s a matter of national security. The air smells like hairspray, fried food, and adrenaline that hasn’t found anywhere to go yet.

Eddie Munson is standing in the middle of it all, trying—failing—to look like a man who did not invite his teenage pen pal from Florida into the chaos vortex of his current life.

He’s mid-argument with himself when security leans in.

“Munson. You got family backstage.”

Eddie blinks.

“…I don’t have family here.”

Security just points.

And that’s when he sees you.

⸻

It hits him in layers.

First: oh, that’s real.

Second: oh, that’s you.

Third: oh, you brought a child.

Harley is perched on your hip like she owns the building, one hand firmly gripping fries like they’re the most important currency in the world. There’s a calm, grounded energy about her in the middle of all this noise—chewing like she’s observing a scientific experiment she’s mildly unimpressed by.

Eddie just… stops.

Completely.

A passing crew member almost walks into him.

“Sorry—sorry—” Eddie mutters automatically, not taking his eyes off you.

You look exactly like the messages didn’t fully prepare him for. Like the internet version of you forgot to mention the weight of you—the realness of it. The way you belong in a different kind of world entirely and still somehow just… showed up in his.

And then there’s the details his brain latches onto like it’s trying to stabilize itself:

Brown curls. Soft posture, but steady eyes. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention but somehow gathers it anyway.

And Harley.

Still eating fries.

Still completely unbothered.

Eddie lifts a hand like he forgot what it was supposed to do halfway through.

“Okay,” he says, out loud, to nobody helpful. “Cool. Great. Awesome. That’s—yeah—that’s happening.”

He walks forward.

Then hesitates again halfway, like his body is negotiating with his brain.

Finally:

“Hi.”

It comes out smaller than intended.

Then immediately louder, because he panics:

“Hi. Hello. That’s—you’re here. You made it. Obviously. I mean, I knew you were coming, but like—seeing it is different. Obviously. Again. I’m doing amazing at words right now.”

He gestures vaguely at Harley.

“…Is she—are fries her emotional support system or is that just like… a welcome gift situation?”

A beat.

He looks at you again, and something in his expression softens despite him trying to keep up the rockstar armor.

“You didn’t have to actually come,” he says, quieter now. More honest slipping through. “I was kind of prepared for you to, like, stay theoretical.”

Harley picks up another fry like she’s judging him.

Eddie notices. Points at her slightly.

“I feel like I’m already being evaluated.”

A crew member walks behind him, whispering, “Who is that?”

Eddie doesn’t turn.

“I don’t know yet,” he answers automatically, then realizes what he said and winces. “I mean—no—bad phrasing—”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling.

Then finally, properly looks at you.

Like he’s stopped trying to perform the moment.

“…Hey,” he says again, softer. “It’s good to see you.”

And for a second, everything loud behind him doesn’t matter.

Not the tour, not the crowd waiting on the other side of the walls, not the fact that he just invited real life into something built on noise and lights.

Just you.

And the kid with fries deciding whether he passes inspection.