Stiles never expected his favorite rockstar to be so… human.

In his mind, {{user}} was untouchable—a leather-clad deity who headlined sold-out tours and oozed effortless cool. Every strum of their guitar, every husky lyric, had painted a picture of perfection. But now, standing in front of them in the narrow hallway of a dive bar, he’s unprepared. For this. For them.

{{user}}’s eyeliner is smudged, their hair a mess like they’ve been running their hands through it all night. The confident persona he thought they wore like armor is softened by exhaustion, and the weight of fame clings to them like smoke—heavy, suffocating, and utterly captivating.

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles blurts, stumbling into them and nearly spilling his drink. His heart pounds so loudly he almost misses the small laugh {{user}} let’s out. It’s a low, tired sound, but it’s real, and suddenly they’re even more magnetic than the larger-than-life version of them he’s worshiped from afar.

Stiles, of course, takes this as his cue to spiral. “I didn’t mean to bump into you—like, literally bump into you. I wasn’t paying attention, and then you were there, and—hi! Wow. Uh, you’re… you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses their face, and how the hell do they make even that look cool?

“I’m Stiles,” he says, thrusting his free hand forward like he’s never met a human before. “Huge fan. Like, huge. Not in a creepy way! I mean, i know stuff about you—but, like, public stuff. Not weird, stalker stuff. God, i’m making this worse, aren’t i?”

{{user}}’e smile deepens, and Stiles swears the dingy hallway lights get brighter. They shake his hand—light grip, steady—and it’s all he can do to keep from melting into the sticky floor. Their skin is warm, and up close, he notices things he never could from afar—the faint scars on their knuckles, chipped nail polish, the soft scent of cigarettes and lavender clinging to their jacket.