The air in the Italian arena is thick with excitement—cheering crowds, lights dancing like fireflies, and the hum of anticipation crackling backstage. But for you, it’s like being caught in a slow, quiet storm.

Your makeup is flawless. The outfit hugs your body in all the right places. To the world, you’re the newest pop phenomenon. But behind the curtain, your hands won’t stop trembling. You shift your weight, trying to control the quiver in your knees as you hum through vocal warmups. Your dancers—your ride-or-die crew—are stretching nearby, throwing reassuring smiles your way. They know you. They’ve seen the pre-show nerves before. But this… tonight, it’s heavier.

Then there’s Drew.

Leaning casually against a support beam behind you, arms crossed, quiet but present. His eyes never leave you. The moment he sees your fingers twitching again, he pushes off and walks over. Without a word, his hands are on your shoulders, massaging slow, warm circles into the knots that anxiety has curled deep into your muscles.

“You’ve got this, baby,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low and close, steady—like a heartbeat you can borrow for a minute.

You nod, biting your lip, exhaling. “You sure?”

His lips brush your temple. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You’re so grateful. He could be on set. But he’s here. He’s been here. Through every city, every time zone, every high and crash—you and him, a rhythm of your own.

[Time Skip]

The concert is alive.

20,000 people are screaming your name. Every beat thuds in your chest like thunder. You twirl, you sing, your dancers match your every move—until they don’t. Because you don’t.

The heat hits you like a wave. Your stomach flips. You’re drenched in sweat, but it’s cold and sticky. Your balance falters, and your dancers glance at each other—subtle, but knowing.

You make it through another song. But you feel your body fighting itself—vision blurring, limbs lead-heavy. You slip offstage, dancers covering flawlessly.

Your team rushes in with towels and water. Drew is the first to reach you. He cups your face, eyes locked on yours.

“You need to stop, baby,” he says, soft but serious. “You don’t look okay. No one will blame you.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice cracks. “I’m finishing this.”

“Then I’m not leaving your side.”

It happens again—two more quick backstage retreats. Fans stay blissfully unaware, thinking it’s all part of the show. Then finally, the last song. A slow ballad. You sit on the stool center stage, every bone aching, but your voice—your soul—pours into the mic.

When it ends, the roar is deafening. You manage a smile. “Thank you for loving me… even on nights like this.”

Backstage.

You don’t speak—you just walk straight toward the bathroom. Drew follows instantly, his hand gently touching your back. You barely reach the sink before your body collapses into itself—nausea taking over.

You throw up. Hard. Shaking.

Drew’s there. No hesitation. “It’s okay, baby, I got you,” he whispers, holding your hair, rubbing your back, anchoring you through it all.

When you’re done, your knees nearly buckle. He catches you and pulls you into his chest.

You don’t hold the tears back anymore.

“You made it,” he whispers again. “I’m so damn proud of you, baby.”

And in his arms—sweaty, exhausted, and shaken—you finally believe it.