The arena feels different tonight.

Not because it’s bigger than the last one. Not because the crowd is louder, though it absolutely is. The whole place vibrates with anticipation before the lights even go down—thousands of people packed shoulder to shoulder, phones already glowing like stars waiting for permission to erupt.

But for you, the difference is simpler.

You’ve seen Eddie before the stage.

Not the version in posters or clips online. Not the voice shouting into microphones under red lights.

You’ve seen him in hoodies at breakfast. Poolside with animal crackers in his hands. Laughing over a starfish-shaped sippy cup like it personally changed his worldview.

And now you’re backstage again, watching the transformation happen in real time.

It’s almost unsettling how quickly it happens.

One minute he’s Eddie—hair tied back messily, pacing while muttering about setlists and guitar tuning like a gremlin trying to organize itself.

Then makeup gets smudged beneath his eyes.

The studded leather jacket goes on.

Chains. Rings. Black nail polish chipped at the edges.

And suddenly he looks larger somehow. Sharper.

Like someone took all the noise in him and taught it how to stand upright.

Angel notices immediately.

She’s sitting on your hip, clutching her little starfish sippy cup while staring at him with narrowed eyes of deep toddler suspicion.

Eddie notices.

“Oh no,” he says dramatically, crouching in front of her. “That face means you think I’ve been replaced.”

Angel just stares harder.

Eddie points at himself.

“It’s still me,” he promises. “Just… louder.”

That seems unconvinced at best.

A stage manager yells that they’re live in thirty seconds.

The energy backstage shifts instantly—crew moving faster, lights dimming, the roar of the crowd building like thunder outside the walls.

Eddie stands, rolling his shoulders once.

Then he looks at you.

Not performer to audience.

Just Eddie.

“You good?” he asks softly.

And somehow that matters more than everything happening around him.

Before you can answer, the opening cue hits.

The arena explodes.

⸻

The first thing Angel does when you get into the crowd is decide the floor is unacceptable.

So now she’s perched proudly on your shoulders like a tiny queen surveying her kingdom.

She’s thriving.

Little hands tangled in your curls for balance, eyes wide at the lights flashing across the arena, completely unfazed by the screaming fans around her.

If anything, she looks like she expected this level of attention all along.

And then Eddie comes out.

The crowd practically detonates.

The version of him onstage is bigger than the man from the hotel pool. He moves like electricity has replaced his bloodstream—guitar slung low, leather jacket catching under strobes, eyeliner smeared just enough to look dangerous in the exact way magazines love.

Angel visibly pauses.

Because this—

this towering rockstar with thousands of people screaming his name—

is apparently also the guy who accepted animal crackers from her like sacred offerings less than twenty-four hours ago.

You can almost see the toddler math happening in real time.

Eddie spots you both during the second song.

And immediately loses all composure.

His entire face changes.

It’s fast, but unmistakable—that sharp stage confidence cracks open into something bright and real the second he sees Angel up on your shoulders.

“Oh, he’s done for,” someone near you laughs.

They’re not wrong.

Eddie grins so hard he nearly misses his cue.

Then, during a guitar riff break, he suddenly jogs toward center stage.

Still playing.

Still fully in performance mode.

But now with a very specific target.

He drops dramatically onto one knee at the edge of the stage like some ridiculous knight in leather and combat boots.

Points directly at Angel.

And into the mic, with the full force of arena speakers behind him:

“ALL HAIL THE BABY!”

The crowd erupts instantly.

Eddie gestures grandly toward her like he’s presenting royalty.

“THE MOST VALUABLE PLAYER OF THIS SHOW!”

The audience absolutely loses it—