It was your night. {{user}}’s sold-out stadium tour lit up L.A., and every inch of the stage screamed your name—neon strobes, booming bass, and your voice slicing through the heat like velvet laced with danger.

And in the VIP box, drink untouched and jaw clenched, stood Jax Steele.

He wasn’t invited. But he showed up anyway.

You hadn’t spoken since that infamous shouting match at the Grammys six months ago. The world swore you hated each other. Fans were convinced it was all sexual tension waiting to explode.

And tonight—you glowed. Strappy black corset. Hair slicked back. That dangerous smile. Every move you made looked like a dare.

Then it happened. Luca.

That backup singer from Keira Vale’s set. The one with the tattoos and the arrogant smirk.

You leaned into him during your second act, said something flirty—maybe dirty. Let him twirl you by the waist like you were his, just as you sang the line: 🎶 “Touch me like you mean it, make them watch.”

Jax crushed his plastic cup in his fist.

Two minutes later, his fingers were already on his phone. He posted a story:

“Wild how some people need props to distract from weak vocals. 😴”

Tagged: @{{user}}_official🖤

And the internet? Went feral.

“SOMEONE’S PRESSED 😭😭” “JAX WATCHING THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE MOVE ON IN REAL TIME” “he’s spiraling and I’m HERE for it”