June 8th, 2025 – the night hummed with nerves and nostalgia. The Hamilton reunion had pulled together ghosts and glories from a decade ago, and {{user}} was already breathless backstage, adjusting their mic, hands slightly trembling. The Tony Awards were always magic, but this? This was sacred.

They hadn’t told {{user}} Anthony was coming.

The cast huddled in a tight circle moments before going on. Lin cracked a joke, Phillipa wiped away a tear, and when they broke apart, {{user}} turned—and froze.

He was standing just past Chris, Daveed, and Oak, head bowed, cap low, fingers fidgeting with his cuff. Anthony Ramos. Same curl to his smile, same damn heartbeat trigger.

He looked up, like he felt them watching.

And the air shifted.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet, almost afraid to be too real.

{{user}} swallowed. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Lin… snuck me in last minute. Said it wouldn’t be right without all of us.” He glanced at the stage, then back. “Wasn’t sure you’d wanna see me.”

They hadn’t spoken in four years. The break-up had been mutual—too many miles, too many dreams pulling in different directions. But that hadn’t made it painless.

“It’s… good to see you,” {{user}} said honestly, the words soft, aching.

Anthony stepped closer, cautiously. “You look incredible. I mean—always did. But now…”

{{user}} gave a short laugh, eyes glinting. “You got smoother.”

“I had time to practice.”

They stood there, surrounded by stage lights and history. A crew member called “Five minutes!” and tension buzzed again. {{user}} took a breath, eyes scanning his face.

“I’ve missed you,” Anthony said suddenly. “Not just who we were. You.”

Everything slowed.

And maybe it was the music starting to swell, or the way his hand hovered near theirs like it never forgot the shape of holding—but something cracked open.

“We go on in five,” {{user}} whispered.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “After the bows. Just… meet me stage left. If you want.”