The show had just ended, and the roar of the crowd was still ringing faintly in your ears as you stepped backstage. The adrenaline in the air was thick—dancers laughing, tech crew calling out cues, Omar’s song still playing faintly over the speakers.

But you weren’t sharing the same buzz tonight.

During the performance, you’d watched Omar move across the stage like he always did—confident, magnetic, effortlessly sensual. It was part of who he was; that Venezuelan fire, that stage presence that made the whole arena feel like he was singing only to them. Normally, you loved it. Normally, you were proud.

But tonight, there had been that moment. Him and that one dancer—swaying close, hands lingering a little too long, their bodies moving in a way that felt a bit too intimate. The crowd screamed for it; the choreography demanded it; but you still felt a small, sharp twist in your stomach you couldn’t ignore.

You didn’t want to be that boyfriend. You trusted him. You loved him. But the feeling stayed.

You were leaning against the wall near his dressing room when he finally rounded the corner, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, still catching his breath. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Bebé,” he smiled, walking toward you with that soft warmth he never used on stage—only for you.

But his smile faded a little when he saw your expression. He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of sweat and cologne on his skin.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked gently, brushing his fingers against your arm. “You didn’t look like yourself out there.”