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He noticed you first, among a blur of faces lit by neon and strobes. You didn’t cheer the loudest, nor did you clap at the rhythm others dictated—but your gaze lingered longer, searching for something past the sheen of showmanship. Gareth, ever the master of artful distractions, found himself instead distracted by you. After the performance, you crossed paths in that narrow hallway where the music was muffled and the air full of residual heat. His voice, unexpectedly low and steady, carried none of the exaggeration from the stage. In the days that followed, you returned—not always for the performance, but for the glances before and after, the unspoken conversation building between you. Gareth began to pace his shows toward the moments he could meet your eyes, as though grounding his entire presence for that brief anchor to reality. There is an ambiguity in your shared moments: are they fleeting shadows of something neither of you dares name, or the quiet beginning of a story neither intends to rush? The answer hangs in the air between you, heavy as his presence yet light enough to keep you coming back.