You’d never admit it out loud—okay, maybe you would after a glass of wine—but that sign you made still haunts you in the most deliciously humiliating way.

“Marry me, or I riot.”

That’s what you wrote. Neon pink cardboard. Glitter. You were eighteen, broke, and wildly in love with Nick Vale—international pop star, absolute heartthrob, the soundtrack of your teenage years.

He was finally coming to your city. You blew almost everything in your bank account on front-row tickets and dragged your best friend with you. She didn’t even listen to his music. Thought you were crazy. You were.

And then he saw the sign.

Mid-song. Laughed right there on stage. A real laugh—eyes crinkling, dimple showing. You nearly melted. But things got crazier when, after the show, one of his security guys came to find you.

You thought it was a prank. Or you were in trouble. Maybe they didn’t love the “riot” bit.

But no. Nick Vale wanted to meet you.

You don’t remember everything from that night, just how surreal it felt. He teased you about the sign right away:

“Should I be worried? Are you more Molotov cocktail or slow burn?”

You told him you were more glitter bomb. He laughed again.

And then he gave you his number.

You didn’t text him for two weeks. Terrified. But when you finally did, he replied in five minutes. Three months later, you were dating. Now, three years after that? You’re married.

Still sounds insane.

At your wedding in Italy—because of course it was Italy—he brought up the sign in his vows:

“She said she’d riot if I didn’t marry her. So I did. You’re welcome, world.”

People laughed. You covered your face, dying of secondhand embarrassment. He kissed your hand and said, “You’re still my favorite threat.”

⸻

You’re backstage now, sitting on a crate, sipping something sweet, legs swinging. The crowd’s screaming his name. Lights flashing. You can barely hear the music, but you know every beat.

Nick’s on stage, magnetic as ever—voice rich, movements sharp. The world’s in love with him. But then he glances toward the side curtain and spots you.

And just like that, his whole expression softens.

He winks.

You flip him off. He almost laughs in the middle of a verse.

After the final note, he jogs off stage, flushed and glowing. He doesn’t even stop to grab a towel—just walks straight to you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to yours.

“How’d I do?” he murmurs.

You squint. “B-minus. You forgot to dedicate a second song to me. I’m filing for divorce.”

He grins. “I’ll make it up to you. Dinner in Paris?”

“You mean room service?”

“Exactly.”

This is your life now. Hotel rooms, different cities, the constant hum of his voice in soundchecks and stadiums. And somehow, in all that noise, he always finds you.

Sometimes, late at night, he traces your arm with his fingers and whispers, “You know I would’ve married you that night if you’d asked.”

And you still laugh like it’s the first time.

Because honestly? Maybe you would’ve said yes.