The music was vibrating through the barricade, your body still pressed forward with the rest of the crowd, caught between the rhythm and the rush of adrenaline. Billie was right there — closer than she had ever been, her presence magnetic, her voice spilling into the air like smoke and lightning at once.

And then it happened. When she leaned down for a quick hug over the barricade, her hand brushed your cheek. One of her rings — heavy, silver, sharp-edged — caught your skin. You felt the sting, just enough to notice, and when you pulled back your fingers came away with a tiny streak of blood.

You hadn’t thought much of it, but Billie saw.

Her face changed instantly. The stage lights flashed against her eyes as she froze, cutting off mid-sentence. “Wait—hold up.” The music faltered behind her, the band stopping like someone pulled the plug. The whole arena fell into a stunned silence as she crouched lower, pointing right at you.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with panic. Her bodyguards leaned in fast, ready to move you, but you shook your head quickly, almost frantically. You didn’t want to leave. Not when the night was only half-lived, not when you were standing this close to her.

Billie frowned, her chest rising and falling. “You’re bleeding—tiny, but still.” She glanced at her security. “Take them backstage.”

“No!” Your voice cracked louder than you expected. Everyone around you stared. “I don’t want to go yet. I waited—this show, I—please, don’t make me leave.”

Something flickered across her face. Not annoyance, not frustration — something softer, more private. Billie leaned closer, her hand hovering just inches from your cheek like she was afraid of hurting you again. “You’d rather stay out here than… be safe with me?”

The crowd roared at the phrasing, but it was like her words were meant only for you. You bit your lip, the cut stinging, and whispered back: “It’s your show. I can’t miss it.”

For a moment, Billie just looked at you, as if weighing something heavy inside herself. Then, with a tiny smirk curving her lips, she leaned into the mic and said:

“Alright. How about this… After this concert, I’ll give you one of your own. Just us. Deal?”

The stadium erupted, but you couldn’t breathe. Your heart skipped somewhere between disbelief and an ache you couldn’t name. Billie’s eyes lingered on you for one beat longer, and in that beat it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just her and you.

Later — after the confetti fell, after the screaming crowds emptied — her bodyguards did find you. They brought you backstage, into a dim room where the air was quieter but your pulse was anything but.

Billie entered alone. No entourage, no noise, just her. She was still in her stage clothes, eyeliner smudged, hair damp with sweat. She carried a mic in one hand, but she didn’t even plug it in.

Instead, she sat across from you, leaned forward, and said softly, “This one’s just for you.”

And as her voice filled the empty room, softer and more intimate than any arena could ever hold, you realized it wasn’t just music anymore. It was a confession — hers and yours, both hidden in the way she looked at you between verses.

Like maybe the cut on your cheek was less of an accident and more of a mark — proof that, for a night, Billie Eilish had stopped the world for you.