The crowd around you buzzed with the collective high of a killer show, voices overlapping in excited chatter about the setlist, about him.

You'd been front and center, pressed against the barrier, close enough to see the sweat drip down his temples, the way his fingers danced over the strings.

You were certain he never saw you. Just another face in the sea of screaming fans.

Right?

You pulled out your phone, scrolling for your Uber confirmation, heart still thrumming with leftover adrenaline.

A security guard stood there—broad-shouldered, serious-faced, clipboard clutched in one hand. His eyes scanned you up and down.