The stadium was vibrating — bass shaking the floor, lights slicing through the dark, thousands of voices screaming your name like a prayer they’d been waiting months to say. You were halfway through the chorus, sweat on your skin, adrenaline buzzing under it, when your eyes instinctively searched for him.

And he was exactly where he always was. Right between the stage and concert barricade.

Damiano had pushed his way to the front long before doors opened — hood up, cap low, pretending not to be the boyfriend of the popstar currently owning the stage. But his cover never lasted. Too many fans recognized him, too many cameras caught him smiling like a man who knew every lyric because you’d practiced them in front of him at 2 a.m.

Tonight he wasn’t even trying to hide the joy. One hand held his phone up, recording you with that soft, stupidly proud look in his eyes.

You danced across the stage, singing as good as always, and there he was, filming, grinning like he’d never loved anything more.

“LOOK AT HER!” you faintly heard him yell to some random fan beside him. “That’s my girl!”

You bit back a smile mid-verse, pretending it was just stage confidence, not the rush you got from seeing him lose his mind down there.

Near the bridge, you dropped to your knees at the edge of the stage — part choreo, part indulgence — and he leaned in just a little, eyes sparkling under the moving lights.

“You’re killing it!” He yelled.

You pretended not to see it, but the warmth spread through your chest anyway.

And when the final chorus hit, you lifted your mic toward the crowd — but your gaze stayed locked on him. He knew. He always knew.

Damiano recorded the whole moment, jaw slack, eyes soft, whispering into his phone like it was a confession meant only for you later: “That’s my superstar. Always. I love seeing my girl glowing”

And for a second, the entire arena disappeared — leaving just you, the spotlight, and the boy who’d always loved you loudest from the front row.