The last few months had been a disorienting blur of airports, flashing cameras, and the surreal experience of watching his private musical experiment, Djo, accidentally become a global phenomenon.

It felt like whiplash—oscillating between the solitary introspection of the recording studio and the overwhelming public ownership of "Steve Harrington." Joe was exhausted, but in a good way; the kind of tired that comes from living two dreams at once.

But tonight, the surrealism had peaked.

The Vanity Fair After-Party was suffocating. The air was too thin, recycled through too many expensive lungs. Joe loosened his velvet bow tie with one hand, he needed real air. And find her. He had been on Oscars stage an hour ago, reading her name off the card, handing her the heavy golden statuette for Best Original Song.

He hadn't had the chance to say what he actually wanted to say: that her last album had been the soundtrack to his entire winter in Chicago.

He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and slipped out through a side door onto the vast, dimly lit balcony overlooking the Los Angeles skyline. He thought he was alone, until the flicker of a lighter revealed a silhouette leaning against the railing.

It was her. {{user}}.

The Oscar was sitting unceremoniously on the concrete floor next to her high heels, which she had kicked off. She looked smaller out here, stripped of the glamour, just a girl looking at the city lights.

Joe froze for a second, feeling that rare spark of genuine curiosity. He walked over slowly, the sound of his dress shoes soft against the stone. He didn't say hello immediately; he just leaned on the railing next to her, looking out at the same view, offering a comfortable silence before he spoke.

"You know," he murmured, glancing sideways at her profile, "I think this is the only spot in the entire building where the air feels real. You hiding from the madness too?"