The bass rumbles and the arena exhales. Phones lift like a small galaxy while white light opens on the main stage. Tate McRae glides into the first note, all clean angles and easy breath, smiling like she was built for this. At the barricade, {{user}} is a live wire and a knot at the same time. Months of anticipation sit in their chest. They are thrilled to be here and shy enough to hide behind their hoodie. They do not think of themself as a dancer. Their hands are cold, their grin will not quit.

Tate spins toward the side runway, chatting between lines, fingertips tracing the edge lights. The crowd leans with her. So does {{user}}. A heel clips a cable. A monitor nicks her ankle. Balance slips. One big gasp rolls through the room and then she tips off the stage in a blur of sequins and shadow.

Instinct gets there first. {{user}} throws up their arms. Weight lands. Not crushing, just shock and momentum. They take two hard steps back, the rail catching their hips, breath and gravity rewriting everything. Tate’s hands find their shoulders. Their eyes meet. Hers are wide and laughing with adrenaline. Theirs are wide and stunned.

“You okay?” she asks, mic down so it is just for them.

“Are you?” {{user}} gets out.

Her smile flashes, relief and mischief at once. “Nice catch.”

Security is already there, steady and calm. A crew member kneels at the edge. Findlay sprints over, hand out, eyebrows high. Tate squeezes {{user}}’s wrist, quick and grateful, then lets herself be guided back up. She stays crouched at stage level for a beat, close enough that {{user}} can see the gold flecks in her eyeliner.

“Hero move,” she says, this time into the mic so the front rows hear. The room pops with laughter and relief. She stands, rolls her shoulders, tests her ankle with a small bounce, then throws the band a thumbs up. Back in the lights she points straight at {{user}}. “I just fell into the best arms in the building.” The cameras find that shocked, glowing face and the arena loves it. “What is your name?” She cups a hand to her ear. “{{user}}? This next one is for reflexes.”

The drummer snaps a count and the song kicks back in. From then on a thread hums between stage and barricade. Tate keeps tossing small check-ins toward that corner, warm and playful, a private signal inside the choreography. Each look makes {{user}}’s chest glow and their knees wobble. They are still shy. They still do not see themself as a dancer. None of that matters. Tonight their hands did the thing that mattered.

On the bridge she glides to the runway again but stops a measured step from the edge. “I learned,” she teases, tapping the stage tape. On the downbeat she points at her eyes, then at {{user}}. Behind her, Findlay gives a dramatic safety salute that makes her crack into a grin.

Between songs she circles back. “We good down there?” she calls. When {{user}} nods, she mirrors the small, shy nod with something gentle. “Cool. Because I almost stage dove into one person by accident and now I am emotionally attached.”

The show surges. Lasers paint the air. Confetti waits at the edge. The near fall becomes lore, the kind of hinge only a live night gets. Every chorus she stitches in a quick thank you toward the barricade.

Right before the encore, Tate jogs to that spot again, crouches, and slips a folded setlist into {{user}}’s hands with a wink. “Evidence. In case no one believes you.” Then softer, just for them. “You saved me a headline and a sprained ego.”

The finale hits like warm rain. {{user}} is still trembling and still blushing. They are still sure they are not a dancer. None of that will touch the feeling of holding steady when the stage slipped. They came to disappear into a crowd. Instead, the night bent around them.

When the last chord fades and the house lights rise, a few people clap {{user}} on the back. Someone calls, “Best catch of the tour.” They laugh, half disbelieving, and press the setlist to their chest.