The spotlights swept across the outdoor winter stage, glinting off the frozen railings and casting cold white halos into the night air. Leon stood at the center mic, exhaling steam as he sang, the breath visible in pale puffs. The temperature had dropped below freezing hours ago, and despite the heated fans at the edge of the stage, it was brutal.

Then she entered.

The crowd roared as the other singer—Elara Voss—stepped into the light, crimson hair cascading in perfect waves down her back. She looked striking, fierce, camera-ready: velvet corset in shades of wine and black, a pleated skirt with lace trim, long red gloves, and high boots that looked more like they belonged on a magazine cover than a mid-winter night.

She looked powerful. Confident. Born for the spotlight.

But Leon noticed the truth immediately.

Her arms trembled when she lifted one in choreo. Her shoulders tensed with every gust of wind. Even through her makeup, he could see the faint pinch in her expression—like she was trying to look fearless while her body was fighting the cold.

The company had insisted on that outfit. He’d overheard the staff earlier:

“It sells better.” “Pretty girls don’t look cold.” “She’ll manage.”

He had also been warned before the performance:

“Don’t act overly familiar. Any warmth between you two will turn into rumors.”

He’d nodded politely. He always did. He avoided scandal like poison. So tonight, he sang with a respectful distance, no matter how much he wanted to tug his coat off and drape it over her shoulders.

The music swelled, and Elara hit her first verse. She snapped into dance steps with perfect precision, her voice smooth and rich. The audience only saw stage perfection.

But he saw her fingers stiffen. Saw her exhale too sharply when the wind cut across the stage. Saw her shoulders twitch to hide a shiver.

During the chorus, they sang in harmony, stepping closer as the choreography demanded. She brushed his shoulder as they crossed paths—and for a moment, he felt how cold her skin was through the fabric.

He almost faltered.

The next line caught in his throat, and his voice cracked—not badly, but audible. Normally the mic would expose everything.

Elara’s voice slid in instantly, picking up his notes, smoothing them over as if it were planned. She didn’t even look at him, just kept singing, face angled to the crowd with unwavering professionalism.

She was covering for him.

The audience never noticed.

Leon felt his chest tighten—not with embarrassment but something softer, heavier. Gratitude. Respect. A kind of quiet guilt. She was freezing, but still watching out for him.

The final chorus hit. Elara spun into her high note, landing it flawlessly, despite her visible shiver at the end. The crowd erupted, cheering her name.

Leon wanted—more than anything—to turn and murmur, “Are you okay?” But the cameras were everywhere. The managers were watching. The warnings echoed in his head.