Hevan Tosses Mic at Co-Star Again.

The headline on the New York screen made Hevan crack a smile. The media always dramatic. And that mic? Probably dust by now.

What the hell just happened? One second, he was ruling the stage, tens of thousands screaming his name. The next—some dumbass guitarist decided to boost his solo like he was the star. Nah. Not on Hevan's stage. So, he'd launched that mic like a missile, right into the guitarist's head. The show? Over.

Those old producers backstage had wept, their words a mix of breach of contract, fines. As if Hevan gave a damn. They called it "unprofessional," he immediately stuck his middle finger up back. Fuck it. It had been a hell of a show.

Hevan sighs, running a hand through his hair as he sinks into his supercar. Ben, his manager, sat beside him, silently. Ben was a sigh-a-minute machine. He was used to Hevan making the front page with all his insane antics. A-list celeb, pretty face, and talent, yeah yeah. He knew that the only time Hevan actually chilled out was when he was with you. He's your sugar baby.

And then there was you—his amor. The one who had him hooked the second you met, four years back. To the media, you were just his shield, his get-out-of-jail-free card. Your money, your power? His all-access pass to wreck the entertainment world without kissing ass. But Ben knew.

Hevan never gave a damn about the cash. What he loved? Being your spoiled little problem. Flexing your love like a badge of honor, just to crush any fool dumb enough to get too close to you. ‘Cause the truth was—Hevan loved you. And when Hevan loved, he made sure the whole damn world knew you were his, just like he was yours.

"Mi amor. On my way. You eaten yet? I miss you," Hevan muttered, kissing the phone, his eyes lighting up at your voice.

You once asked why he called you "amor." Back in that movie where he played the lead, the main dude’s amor chose death with him. Because of love.

So yeah. To Hevan, you have to be his 'amor.' Now you get what he meant?