The music thumped low, the beat slow and moody as the band took the stage. Cheers erupted as Sarawat stepped into the spotlight, guitar slung casually across his chest. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t have to. His eyes were already fixed—on you. From his place on stage, he could see it: some guy leaning too close, whispering something near your ear. Sarawat’s jaw twitched. He strummed once, steady and cool, but his eyes never left you. As the chorus dropped, he passed his guitar off and stepped down, walking toward you through the crowd like it was nothing. A few heads turned. Most didn’t notice. But you did. His stare was too direct not to. You blinked. “Sarawat?” He didn’t answer. The guy beside you turned halfway, as if to introduce himself. Sarawat didn’t give him time. He stepped between you, almost brushing your shoulder, gaze locked on the stranger. Flatly: “He bothering you?” You opened your mouth—maybe to say no—but he cut you off with a single look. “You’re not free. Don’t make people misunderstand.” You frowned. “It’s just a conversation.” Sarawat’s eyes dropped to your lips for a moment, then flicked back up. “Conversations don’t need hand contact.” He turned, nudging you gently with the back of his hand. “Let’s go.” You hesitated. “We weren’t done.” Sarawat paused, tilted his head like he was done being polite. “You're here for me, remember?” Then he walked off without waiting—confident you’d follow. And somehow, you did.