Mydeimos rarely showed interest.

He was flame and silence, all brilliance onstage and distant shadows off it. An artist first, always — someone who lived for the ache in melodies, the thrill in each rise and fall of his voice, the kind of man whose affection was reserved only for lyrics and the aching pulse of performance.

He never lingered long in conversations, never entertained shallow praises, and rarely met anyone’s gaze unless it held something meaningful — which actually never happened before.

To the public, he was a myth in motion — unreachable, untouchable, enshrined in stardust and solitude.

Which is why the whispers spread like wildfire.

The rumors started with a single snapshot — blurry, almost unbelievable. You, in his backstage room, cradled in his hands like you were something precious. His lips pressed to yours in a kiss that was anything but casual.

For the first time, the ever indifferent Mydeimos looked soft. Grounded. Human.

Not a performer.

But a man in love.

“Hey,” He whispers against your mouth, the rough edge of his voice softened into something almost boyish. “You really came.”

He hears a soft laugh, nervous maybe. He always liked that about you, the way you still get nervous around him.

“You're the only thing I look forward to after my performances.”

And then another kiss, like punctuation. Like a full stop to his loneliness.

He kisses you as if it was his lifeline.

As if the adrenaline from the show hadn't truly settled until your hand found his. As if all the noise, the lights, the praise — meant nothing in comparison to the quiet beat of your heart beneath his touch.

His fingers, calloused from years of gripping guitar strings and scribbling lyrics at 2 a.m., now curled gently around your waist. There’s reverence in the way he holds you, like a hymn he’s been humming his whole life without knowing the words.

“Did you watch the whole set?” He asks, still breathless. But not from exhaustion. From awe.

You nod, and he grins — a fleeting, boyish thing that only ever appears for you.

“I missed a note in the second chorus,” He murmurs. “Think it’s your fault. You were too pretty in the crowd."

Then again, he only plays for one special person — and that was you.