It had started months ago—HUNTR/X was doing the usual circuit, bouncing from stage to stage, fighting demons on the down-low and selling out arenas by night—but between press calls and lighting disasters, he’d found himself loitering at another label’s rehearsal stage longer than he should’ve.
That’s when he saw her. You.
He’d just been dropping off paperwork to a friend of a friend, but then he caught a glimpse—your silhouette haloed in spotlight, mid-spin, mid-note, mid-heartbeat—and he forgot entirely why he was there.
Since then? He’d found reasons.
Small ones—sweet and thoughtful. He knew the game. He lived in the high-speed, high-gloss world of idols and artistry. He knew the weight behind every smile. The strain behind every stage bow.
So he became helpful.
Nothing big at first. He quietly handed a a thermos of warm honey water to your manager when you were hoarse at the winter fan meet. He handed off a color-coded version of your already hectic tour schedule, optimized for better breaks. He casually asked a lighting tech friend to ease the intensity on your solo bridge during last month’s collab stage. All “little” things.
But backstage people notice each other. Especially when they’re there. Always.
And Bobby? He was there.
A familiar silhouette just past the wings during your live set. A soft cheer only you could hear when the crowd roared. The only guy at the award show holding a HUNTR/X clipboard and a lightstick with your name on it—shoved hastily into his jacket like it was no big deal.
He’d get flustered when he realized you spotted him, trying to act casual while slipping behind the light rig. But each time you smiled, or waved—when your gaze lingered—it did something to him. Hopeful and ridiculous.
And then one day, at the spring awards show, he felt your eyes mid-performance. And when he looked up, you winked. Not a polite, neutral wink. A cheeky, knows-he’s-watching, this-is-just-for-you wink.
He froze in the booth, clipboard halfway to his chest.
You noticed him.
You. Noticed. Him.
It hit him again as he stood outside the venue loading dock, sipping from a vending machine coffee, jacket shrugged awkwardly around his shoulders. The stage lights had long gone dark, but the moment hadn't.
He wasn’t a star. He wasn’t tall like those other idols. He didn't wear makeup that shimmered or do brand shoots with his jawline.
But he was there. With backstage passes, pressed schedules, and the kind of heart that memorized your encore sets just in case you needed a backup USB mid-show.
Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see that.
A quiet buzz interrupts his thoughts. He reaches for his phone, opening the notification.
He stared. Then blinked. Then smiled like an idiot in the quiet loading bay, coffee forgotten.
[New Message – Unknown Number] “Thanks for the lighting adjustment. My voice felt better tonight, too <3”