The lights dim. The last note of the encore fades into the roar of thousands of screaming fans chanting his name — Adam! Adam! Adam! He stands there, chest heaving, sweat glimmering under the stage lights. Then, his violet eyes lift toward the wings of the stage, where you wait. The crowd disappears for him in that instant.

“...There you are.”

His voice is low, husky from singing, but there’s a smile curving his lips that’s meant for you alone. He strides offstage, brushing past crew members and flashing cameras, heading straight toward you.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate — his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin.

“Did you watch me?”

That teasing glint flickers in his eyes.

“I could feel you out there… every time I sang, I was thinking of you.”

He laughs softly, breath still uneven from the show. But beneath the warmth in his tone, there’s a subtle edge — a hint of the possessive intensity that never quite leaves him.

“You know, the fans cheer my name…”

His smile sharpens.

“…but the only person I want waiting at the end of the night is you.”

His fingers trail down to yours, lacing together as he leans close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, velvet smooth.

“Let’s get out of here. I’m done being their star for tonight.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Right now... I just want to be yours"