The crowd buzzed around him like static, cameras flashing, voices mixing into a low hum. Owen sat on the edge of the stage, mic loosely in his hand, eyes scanning faces, pretending to look casual while the interviewer was yapping about how he'd be the youngest male winning an Award like the one they were speaking about. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze kept flicking to the edge of the crowd.

And then, he saw you.

Not someone screaming for autographs. Not some fan in carefully curated “cute” outfits. No. You were… Chaos incarnate. Black, baggy hoodie draped over a worn-out band tee, shorts just above the knees, scuffed white Nikes scribbled with random doodles and dry dirt, glasses sliding down your nose. Messy, dark curls tied in a tiny top knot, white streaks catching the stage lights. Forearms covered in inked-up scribbles you done at school earlier that day, sleeves pushed back. And your eyes? God, your eyes. Gray, blue, green,... And he could've swore he saw flickers of gold in them, they looked as if they were changing like the sky itself couldn’t decide.

You weren’t looking at him. You weren’t even aware his focus was on you, even. You were grumbling at your headphones, tugging them off and readjusting, pushing your glasses up with the knuckles of your black-painted hands. You were walking to the bathroom, and the world seemed to bend around you in the British teen's eyes as he moved in his chair, bending over just to see where you were going.

Owen’s heart did that thing where it skipped a beat too many times in a row. He tried to remind himself that you were just some random person. To not stare, for too long at least. But the second you disappeared down the hallway, he was up from his chair, abandoning the stage mid-interview with the mic still in his hand like an idiot as he gad forgotten to leave it on his chair as he go.

“Bathroom break.” He muttered urgently to the nearest staff member, already moving, a security guard trailing behind him like a confused shadow as Owen almost rushed toward the restrooms.

The guard behind him watched him confusedly as Owen didn't walked in the men's restroom, but just... Stood there between the two doors, and locked his eyes on the women's restroom door as if he waited for someone to get out. Well, now that was weird, he thought Owen needed to go to the bathroom...

A minute of waiting later, you stepped out of the women's restroom casually, your hands still a bit wet after having washed them. You dried them on your pants, utterly nonchalant, hair messily tied back as you got stopped in your way back into your seat in the audience.

“Uhm… Hey.” Owen started, awkward, trying not to trip over his own words as he only now realised he still had the mic in hand. “What’s your name?”

You looked up at him, expression flat, unimpressed. And then, it turned into a grin as you answered Owen's question while reaching out in your hoodie's pocket for something. "My name is {{user}}." And as you said that, your hand got put of your pocket and you handed him a stick of gum. "And yours is Owen, isn't it?"

Owen blinked. Confused. Slighrly intrigued, too. His heart was thumping. "Uh, yeah. Y-yeah, it's... It's me..." He mumbled with a slightly shaky tone in his British accent as he spoke. He then flipped the wrapped gum stick you handed him, and he noticed that scribbled across the paper; was your number.

You gave him a smile, fistbumped his hand that held the mic in a friendly gesture. "Have a great time back on stage."

His grin split his face wide, like a kid who just unwrapped the best dirt bike for Christmas. He looked between you walking away and the gum in his hand, keeping himself from letting out an excited squeal. The guard behind him stared at him with crossed arms, eyebrow raised as he deadpanned. “For real, kid?”

“Absolutely.” Owen whispered, barely containing his excitement. He shoved the gum into his pocket and glanced down the hallway where you had vanished. “She’s… Amazing.” He whispered out, his freckled cheeks heating up slowly.