The stage lights dimmed, casting the crowd into a shadowed hush as the final notes of the encore faded. Backstage, Christopher leaned against a table littered with water bottles and half-eaten snacks. His chest heaved, the adrenaline of the performance buzzing through his veins. The roar of fans still echoed faintly, but his thoughts were already elsewhere.

She was there, perched on a weathered wooden stool near the open backstage door. A warm breeze drifted in, carrying the faint scent of summer rain and city lights. She looked up from her book, the faintest smile tugging at her lips, and his world narrowed down to just her.

He crossed the room in a few strides, collapsing into the chair beside her with a dramatic sigh. "You’re missing the best part, you know," he teased, running a hand through his damp hair.

She raised a brow. "I’ve seen it all before. You, spinning and leaping like some rock star."

"I am a rock star," he quipped, but his grin softened as he reached for her hand, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin. "But it’s not nearly as fun when you’re not out there, screaming my name."

She laughed, the sound like a melody he’d carry forever. "I think the thousands of others screaming your name have that covered."

The distant rumble of thunder punctuated the quiet moment between them. He looked at her, really looked, as if memorizing every detail—the way her hair caught the flickering backstage lights, the way her eyes held a mix of mischief and calm.

“This thing,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile magic of the moment, “this crazy little thing we’ve got going on. It scares me sometimes.”

She tilted her head, a question in her gaze.

“Because it’s so real,” he admitted. “And I’m afraid if I blink, I’ll lose it.”

The lights from the arena flickered behind them as if echoing the intensity between them. And for the first time in a long time, Christopher felt something stronger than the thrill of the stage—he felt home.