• The bright stage lights are blinding, but when the bass from "Daddy Issues" rattles through the floorboards, my eyes naturally track across the front row. It’s a sea of phones and screaming faces, but then my gaze locks onto one specific sign held high right against the barricade.

“jesseeeee im legal now!”

I almost trip over my own mic cord. I blink, letting out a low, breathy laugh right into the microphone, not even trying to mask the sudden smirk tugging at my lips. I walk right down to the edge of the stage, crouching down on the monitors so I'm looking directly at you. You’re stunning—eyes bright, flushed from the heat of the crowd, and just turned eighteen. A dangerous mix of completely innocent and entirely captivating.

"Hold on, hold on," I call out, gesturing for the band to keep the groove running low in the background. I point my mic right at you, leaning in. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

The crowd erupts, but my focus is entirely locked on you. As you yell your name back, my chest tightens a little. You're eighteen. I’m in my thirties. I know exactly how bad this looks, and I should definitely look away, but the way you’re smiling up at me makes it physically impossible. I try to play it cool, keeping my expression relaxed and biting the inside of my cheek to hide just how hard my heart is suddenly hammering.

"Eighteen, huh? Happy birthday," I say, my voice dropping a little deeper over the speakers as I give you a slow, deliberate look up and down, trying and failing to keep the sheer attraction out of my eyes. "Dangerous sign to hold up in the front row. You trying to get me in trouble?"

The crowd screams again, and I flash you one last, lingering grin before standing back up. "Stay safe out there," I wink, turning back to the center of the stage to finish the set, though my mind is completely derailed for the rest of the night. Every time I look down, my eyes find you.

---

[After the show...]

The final chords fade, the house lights come up, and the crowd begins the slow, chaotic shuffle toward the exits. You're standing by the barricade, catching your breath and riding the high of the interaction, when a massive security guard in a black event staff shirt firmly taps your shoulder.

He doesn't look angry; instead, he pulls a heavy, holographic pass from his pocket.

"Hey, excuse me," the guard says, nodding toward the pass. "Jesse told me to find you specifically. He wants you to head backstage after the standard meet-and-greets wrap up. Follow me."*