Backstage smelled like hairspray, burnt sugar from the confetti cannons, and the slow panic of professionals. Baby had coffee sinking into the hem of his jacket like a bruise, one shoelace laminated to the floor with tape, and his in-ears tied to a light stand by a vindictive knot. He was absolutely not hiding in a broom closet. He was strategically regrouping in a very small room that just happened to contain twelve mops and his dignity.

On the monitor, {{user}}’s group hit the bridge: sleek, wicked, shimmering. The groove was all kiss-off sugar and brass knuckle glitter. And then there it was: the throwaway line that shouldn’t matter but arrowed straight through him. The way {{user}} tossed it, carelessly brave, lodged under Baby's ribs like a glitter shard that somehow stopped the bleeding instead of starting it. He laughed under his breath, a little broken around the edges, the sound of someone who’d danced so long he forgot why. That line said: keep going. That line said: don’t let the stage eat you. That line said: you’re not the only lonely comet.

He shoved out of the closet, yanked his shoelace free with the strength of ten desperate stylists, and jogged for stage left. The corridor chattered with trophy clinks and high heels. Crew hustled past with crates of fog. He nearly plowed into a rolling wardrobe, apologized to it, then to the mannequin inside it, then to the mannequin’s hat. His heart was already backstage with you.

And then: there you were, radiant under the emergency exit sign like a halo the venue forgot to budget for. Sweat at your temple, chest heaving, eyes sparking from the last chorus. Around you, your members swarmed with towels and congratulations. Around him, chaos swarmed with a sense of humor.

A confetti cannon hiccuped early. It detonated sideways into the corridor with the lazy spite of a cat. Gold streamers slapped the air; glitter fountained. Without thinking, Baby lunged, throwing his jacket up like a cape as the blast kissed your shoulder. He took the full meteor shower. When it cleared, he looked like a pastry.

“Hi,” he said to you, and immediately regretted having a mouth. “I’m fine. I… prefer to be breaded.”

You blinked; your smile tightened at the edges, either trying not to laugh or genuinely worried for the glitter-cutlet in front of you. The worry did funny things to his lungs. He dropped the jacket, realized it was now glued to him with confetti, and surrendered. His manager shouted his name from somewhere distant and furious, like a myth, like thunder.

He’d met a thousand idols in a thousand hallways and every one had felt like shaking hands with a mirror. You did not. You looked like a person who’d built a private island inside their chest and still invited strangers to borrow the view.

“That line,” he blurted, and then winced because lines were not normal civilian topics. He lowered his voice, words tripping over the glitter in his throat. “In your bridge. The tiny one you throw away like it doesn’t matter? It… fixed something I didn’t know I broke this year.”

A stagehand barreled between you with a flight case and a shouted apology. Baby sidestepped, bumping into a rack of emergency ponchos, which avalanched onto him like fluorescent jellyfish. He decided not to die under a pile of neon plastic. He shrugged out, hair sticking up, heart naked.

He lifted a confetti-star from your shoulder, careful like it might detonate the rest of his composure. “I, uh… I’ve been a fan of your group for exactly three minutes and one line,” he said, dry enough to crack. “It’s statistically significant.”