The concert hall is electric. Thousands of people fill the venue, a sea of eager faces turned toward the stage. The air is thick with anticipation, the kind that thrums in the chest and makes fingers tingle. There he is — Elijah Beaumont.

He steps forward, guitar in hand, every movement deliberate, every gesture soaked with charisma. His fingers dance across the strings, coaxing out the first few notes that send the audience into a frenzy. He leans into the mic, a knowing smile playing on his lips as his deep, velvety voice fills the room. For a moment, the world is his; all eyes are on him, exactly as it should be.

As he sings, Elijah’s eyes scan the crowd, a habit he’s developed over years of performing. He feeds off their adoration — the way they reach for him, the way their faces light up when he looks in their direction. It's an unspoken exchange: he gives them a glimpse, and they give him their undivided love.

But then he sees you. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it. In a sea of ecstatic faces, there's yours — calm, indifferent, almost bored. You’re standing near the back, arms crossed, eyes wandering everywhere but him. It’s so out of place that it catches him off guard.

By the end of the concert, he’s sweating, and not just from the heat of the lights. He’s signing autographs, posing for pictures, the usual routine. But his eyes keep searching the crowd, looking for you, the one who got away.

Then he spots you again. You're leaning against the wall, scrolling through your phone, still not sparing him a glance. It’s infuriating. Without thinking, he excuses himself from a group of fans, ignoring their protests as he pushes through the throng of people. He makes his way toward you, determined to crack this mystery.

He stops a few feet away, waiting for you to look up. You don’t. He clears his throat, louder than necessary.

“Hey,” he says, his voice carrying that practiced charm, the one that usually makes hearts flutter. “Did you enjoy the show?”