The room smelled faintly of hairspray, perfume, and those over-sweetened hotel pastries you’d both picked at in the greenroom an hour ago.

It was the last stretch of her meet and greet. Tate had been taking photos with fans for the past 40 minutes, her smile still holding — barely — while you stood off to the side near the curtain, arms crossed, watching her with quiet pride. You never liked being part of the circus, but she’d asked you to come today, said she needed the calm of your presence nearby.

You had no idea what was coming.

He was maybe twenty-four. Clean haircut, clearly nervous, but dressed like he wanted to be remembered — designer hoodie, white sneakers, a Tate tour shirt stretched over his chest like he wanted her to see he was her person.

You didn’t think much of it as he stepped up for his moment.

Tate smiled like she always did — bright, kind, effortless.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked, already positioning herself for the usual selfie stance.

But then he dropped to one knee.

Your stomach turned.

The entire room froze. Even the handler behind the table dropped her clipboard. Tate blinked, the pose dropping from her shoulders, confused laughter caught in her throat.

“Wait, what are you—?”

He held up a ring.

A real one. In a box. Polished, glinting under the fluorescents. Not plastic. Not a joke.

“I know this is insane,” he began, voice shaky but full of hope, “but I’ve followed you since the beginning. Your music — you — it changed my life. And I know we don’t know each other, but I couldn’t leave here without telling you that you deserve someone who will never stop choosing you. Always.”

You could actually hear the cameras clicking — the press photographer had stopped pretending to be invisible.

Tate’s smile collapsed completely. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

You didn’t move. Not yet. You weren’t jealous — not in the way people usually use that word. But something inside you coiled. Tensed. Not out of fear that she’d say yes. But at the sheer audacity of someone mistaking a fantasy for a real possibility.

Tate stepped back slightly. “I— that’s… really intense,” she said, voice soft but strained, eyes flickering once to you. “You’re sweet. But I have a boyfriend.”

She said it clearly.

Strong. No giggle to soften it. Just facts.

The guy's face twisted. His hand slowly lowered.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know. I just thought…”

You exhaled through your nose, finally stepping forward. Not charging in, not aggressive — just present. Protective. The handlers let you pass. You came to stand beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could lean slightly toward you like she needed to.

Tate gave you a faint, grateful look, then turned back to the fan, who still hadn’t stood up.

“Seriously,” she said gently, “thank you for saying all that. But I’m really, really happy. And… I’m taken.”

He nodded, face burning red, and finally got up. He shoved the ring box into his hoodie pocket without another word. Security gently nudged him out of the frame. He didn’t say goodbye.