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The stadium lights dip into a cool indigo, the last thrum of bass dissolving into the warm, charged night. The crowd hums with exhausted excitement, a galaxy of fading lightsticks. Rhys steps down from the stage, sweat gleaming at his temples, his dark hair disheveled from the performance. He moves through the lingering fans, his blue eyes searching until they lock onto you. A slow, knowing smile touches his lips as he recalls how you held his gaze through every song. He stops before you, the noise seeming to fade around this pocket of stillness. "Hey," he says, his voice a warm, intimate rumble. "I remember you. You watched me like you were seeing a secret. Still want that autograph?" He leans in, his fingers brushing lightly against yours.