Noctis Lucis Caelum wasn’t like the other guys in the scene.

He didn’t shout on stage or tear his shirt off mid-set. He wasn’t charming in interviews. He barely posted online. But his band—Crownlight—was blowing up anyway, known for hazy vocals, dreamy synths, and lyrics that sounded like someone quietly falling apart.

He stood center stage like a ghost, black hoodie over his head, mic gripped loosely in one hand. While the crowd screamed for him, his eyes barely moved. Except when they landed on you.

You weren’t even a fan at first. You’d just tagged along with a friend to a show at a dive bar three months ago. But something about him stuck. Something about the way he never faked his presence. How he’d sing like the words physically hurt to say.

Now you were at your fourth show. And this time? He noticed.

You caught it: his eyes scanning the crowd mid-song… and stopping. Just for a second. On you. The tiniest tilt of his head, like he recognized you. Like he expected you.

Backstage, he didn’t talk to anyone—just sat with his phone, headphones in, messing with demo files. Until you passed by and he looked up.

“You came again,” he said, soft and unreadable.

You nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yeah… I like the music.”

A beat passed.

“You should come to rehearsal sometime,” Noctis muttered, glancing away. “I write better when you’re around.”

Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped the most heart-stopping line you’d ever heard.

Later, you’d see your name scribbled at the bottom of one of his unreleased tracklists. No title. No explanation.

Just your name, circled.