You were close. Really close. Close enough to see the sweat glistening on the performers' foreheads, close enough to catch the individual strands of hair whipping around as they danced. The crowd pressed in around you, a sea of bodies moving in unison, and you kept a firm grip on the small hand tangled in your jacket sleeve.

"Ava, look! She's coming this way!"

Riva—your four-year-old, though she looked closer to three in her oversized tour t-shirt and little high-tops—pointed with her free hand, her big eyes wide with excitement. She bounced on her toes, trying to see over the shoulders of the teenagers in front of her.

"We're so close, baby. I know." You leaned down, your lips brushing against her messy hair. "You can see everything from here, right?"

"Uh-huh!" Riva nodded emphatically, still gripping your sleeve like a lifeline. "She's pretty, Ava. Like a princess."

On stage, the song was building to its crescendo. Freya Skye stepped forward, mic in hand, her energy electric as she belted out the final notes. Her movements were sharp, confident, completely in her element. The crowd roared, a wall of sound that pressed against your chest.

And then—for just a moment—Freya's gaze swept across the front row.

It was a fleeting thing. A performer scanning the crowd, taking in the sea of faces. It should have been nothing.

But her eyes stopped.

On you.

The song reached its climax, and Freya held the note, but her focus had narrowed. Her head tilted almost imperceptibly, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before the choreography pulled her back into motion.

Riva tugged at your hand. "Ava? Is she looking at us?"

A small hand squeezed yours.

"I think she likes you, Ava."