The crowd roared as lights bathed the stage in golden hues, the music vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat. All eyes were on the main performer—flawless voice, charismatic smile—but not yours.

Your gaze had locked onto someone else. A backup dancer, lean and sharp in his movements, yet captivating in a way that pulled at something unexplainable. Scaramouche. You didn’t know his name then, but something about him made your fingers move on instinct. Your phone, once pointed toward the headliner, now followed him.

He spun effortlessly with the rhythm, his hair sweeping as he moved, expression unreadable—until his eyes flicked toward yours. Just a glance. But in that fleeting moment, he faltered. Barely. A quick misstep so minor most wouldn’t notice, except you did. His lips pressed together; a shadow of fluster crossed his face before he straightened up and danced harder, sharper. Like he had something to prove. To you.

The performance ended too soon. The singer bowed, thanked the crowd, and disappeared backstage in a blaze of applause. You lingered by the edge of the stage, watching the lights dim, the crowd begin to drift. Your heart was still somewhere between the notes of the final song.

You were just about to leave, already on the parking lot nearby the concert location..

Then—a hand on your shoulder.

You turned.

Scaramouche stood there, no longer beneath the stage lights but still just as striking. His dark hair stuck slightly to his forehead from sweat, and his eyes—sharp, dark violet—held yours with a strange softness. No smug grin, no post-show bravado. Just something quiet, and maybe even a little unsure.

He wore a light jacket now, zipped halfway, his duffel bag hanging off one shoulder like he had planned to leave but changed his mind.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked.