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The stage lights were blinding in a way that felt almost cruel.
They washed over everything in harsh white and gold, swallowing the edges of the world until there was nothing left but the performance.
The air trembled faintly from the bass of the music, the sound vibrating through your ribs as if it wanted to settle inside your chest and stay there. From where you stood in the shadows of the wings, you had the perfect view — not just of the stage, but of him.
Luka stood at the center like he had been carved for it. And maybe he was.
There was something about the way he carried himself beneath the lights — shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes sharp and calculating even when he pretended to soften them. The stage didn’t intimidate him. It followed him.
And you had always admired that about him, the way he seemed untouchable when he performed, like nothing in the world could reach him there.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t alone.
The duet had been anticipated for weeks. People whispered about how “perfect” the pairing was — their visuals, their vocal tones, their contrasting personalities that somehow blended seamlessly together. Even before the music began, you could feel the crowd’s excitement buzzing like static in the air.
When the first note rang out, everything else disappeared.
They moved in sync, steps measured and precise from rehearsals and practices. Luka’s voice threaded through the melody with effortless control, smooth and commanding, while his partner’s harmonized beside him. The choreography called for closeness — fingers grazing, hands guiding waists, faces hovering just a breath apart.
And he looked at them.
God, he looked at them. Not casually. Not distantly.
He looked at them like they were the only thing holding him upright.
His gaze softened at the edges, blonde lashes lowering slightly as his voice dipped into something almost vulnerable. It was a look you recognized. A look you had seen when he sang absentmindedly in the practice room late at night, when he thought no one important was watching. A look that felt intimate, reserved.
Or at least, you thought it was.
The crowd erupted halfway through the bridge when he pulled his partner closer, fingertips sliding along their wrist before guiding them inward. The move lingered longer than necessary. Just enough to feel real.
“They’re insane together,” someone whispered behind you. “The chemistry is crazy.”
You forced yourself to smile, a smile that looked pained, hurt.
Of course it was chemistry. Of course it looked real. That was the point. That was the game.
You had always told yourself you understood that. The stage came first. Performance came first.
You were never naïve about that. You’ve played this song and dance countless of times.
But understanding something logically didn’t stop it from hurting.
As the final note rang out, Luka’s voice steady and resonant beneath the thunder of applause, he held his partner’s hand just a second too long before letting go. The lights dimmed slowly, casting them in gold and shadow.
You clapped.
You kept your expression neutral.
And before the encore chant could build, before he could scan the wings for you the way he always did, you stepped away.
-
The hallway outside the stage felt suffocatingly quiet compared to the roar inside.
Each step echoed too loudly against the polished floor as you moved without direction, without really thinking. You told yourself you just needed air. Just space. Just a moment to gather yourself before facing him with the same supportive smile you had always worn so easily.
But tonight, the smile felt heavier. Almost artificial even.
You didn’t want to be the person who needed reassurance. You didn’t want to be the insecure one who couldn’t separate performance from reality. Luka wasn’t the type to indulge emotional dramatics. He valued control. Precision. Strength.
So you left before you could say something you’d regret.
-
Backstage, Luka noticed immediately.
He didn’t react outwardly when the performance ended. He accepted the praise with a small nod, allowed the staff to adjust his mic, tolerated the teasing remarks about how convincing the duet had been.
But his eyes drifted instinctively toward the shadows near the curtain.
You weren’t there.
You were always there. Always.
His expression didn’t change, but something cold and sharp settled beneath his ribs. He checked his phone once. No message. No short “You did amazing” text. No sarcastic comment about how dramatic he’d looked.
The absence irritated him more than the comments about chemistry ever could.
Without bothering to explain himself, he stepped away from the noise and followed the direction he assumed you’d gone. He knew your habits. The quiet places. The places where the cameras didn’t reach. He knew it all too well.
Of course you were on the rooftop. You always went here when your thoughts were too much for you to handle.
The night air was cooler than you expected, brushing against your skin in a way that almost helped clear your head. The dark skyline stretched endlessly in front of you, glowing with distant lights that felt detached and unreal. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the ache in your chest that refused to settle.
You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt it when he stepped closer.
“Why did you leave?”
His voice was controlled, smooth — but there was an undercurrent beneath it. Something sharper, something you couldn’t quite grasp.
You didn’t turn immediately.
“You didn’t need me there,” you said quietly.
The words sounded small compared to the weight behind them. “I didn’t need you?” he repeated, as if testing the logic.
“You looked fine.”
“I’m always fine.”
You let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Exactly.”
That made him go still.
You turned then, meeting his eyes properly. Up close, the stage persona had faded slightly. The precision was still there, but there was tension around his mouth, a tightness in his jaw that betrayed him and made him look more human.
“I’m tired, Luka,” you admitted, your voice steadier than you felt. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m competing with something I can’t win against.”
His brows drew together faintly.
“The stage,” you clarified. “Your partners. The way you look at them. The way everyone talks about how perfect you are together.”
You swallowed.
“I don’t even know where I stand with you.”
Silence stretched between you, fragile and real.
Then he stepped closer.
“You think,” he said slowly, voice dropping lower, “that what happens on that stage belongs to them?”
“It looks like it does.”
Something flickered in his expression — frustration, maybe. Or disbelief.
“You think I can produce that kind of emotion for just anyone?” You didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.
He closed the remaining distance between you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cool air.
“When I sing like that,” he said quietly, “I’m not seeing them.”
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
“I’m seeing you.”
The words didn’t sound rehearsed. They weren’t polished or dramatic. They were raw in a way Luka rarely allowed himself to be.
“I don’t feel that intensity because of them,” he continued, gaze locked onto yours. “I use what I already have. And what I have… is you.”
Your breath caught.
“You’re the only person who makes me feel something strong enough to use,” he admitted, the slightest crack slipping into his voice before he regained control. “Do you really think I would waste that on someone I don’t care about? Someone I can easily discard?”
The confession settled heavily in the space between you.
“You’re not second place,” he said more softly now. “You’re not competing with the stage. You’re the reason I’m able to stand on it the way I do.”
For someone who thrived on superiority and composure, those words were a surrender.
Your throat tightened. “You could’ve told me.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, but this time it wasn’t frustration. It was guilt.
“I’m not good at saying things that make me vulnerable,” he admitted quietly, and there was no pride in it now. No defensiveness. Just honesty. “But that’s not an excuse.”
You blinked.
“I should’ve realized,” he continued, voice softer than you had ever heard it after a show. “I should’ve noticed how it looked. How it felt to you.”
The apology wasn’t dramatic. Luka didn’t do dramatic apologies.
But the way his hand slowly reached for yours — careful, almost hesitant — said more than any rehearsed line ever could.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time there was no mask at all. “I never wanted to make you feel like you were competing with anything. Especially not with something that doesn’t even compare.”
Your heart stuttered.
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint flush still lingering on his skin from the stage lights.
“You matter more than the performance,” he said, quieter now. “More than the applause. More than the outcome.”
Inside the building, the crowd began chanting again.
Encore.
His name echoed faintly through the rooftop door. You instinctively glanced toward it. “They’re calling you.”
He didn’t look away from you.
For a moment, you expected him to pull back. To straighten up, slip the mask back on, return to being the untouchable performer everyone adored.
Instead, he surprised you.
“Let them,” he said.
Your eyes widened slightly. “Luka—”
“I don’t want to go back in there right now.”
The words felt almost rebellious coming from him. But the chanting inside the building only grew louder.
Encore. Encore. Encore.
Luka thrived in that sound, in the electricity of being wanted by a crowd that would never truly know him.
But right now, at this very moment, he wasn’t even listening to the cheers.
He was looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “Luka, they’re calling you,” you whispered again, almost guilty.
“I don’t care,” he replied immediately. There was no hesitation. No arrogance. Just certainty.
His hands tightened slightly around yours, warm and steady despite the cool air brushing past you. Up close, you could still see the remnants of stage makeup beneath his eyes, the faint shimmer of sweat along his temple — proof that minutes ago he had been glowing under lights that demanded perfection.
And yet here he was. Choosing imperfection. Choosing vulnerability.
Choosing you.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I never meant to make you feel like you were standing outside my world.”
“I know I can be... detached and difficult,” he continued, lifting one hand to cup your face gently. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he was afraid you might slip away if he wasn’t gentle enough. “but I promise you, what I feel for you runs far deeper than I ever let on, than what I allow anyone to see.”
His thumb brushed along your cheek, wiping away the faint shine in your eyes before it could fall.
“You’re the only one.”
His words landed with a weight that made your heart stutter painfully in your chest.
“The only one I look for after every performance,” he murmured. “The only one whose reaction I care about. The only one who can make me feel like I’m losing control.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Luka…”
“When I look at someone on stage,” he continued, voice lowering, “I’m using what I feel for you. That intensity? That softness? It doesn’t belong to them.”
His forehead rested against yours again, but this time there was urgency in the way he leaned in, like he needed you to understand.
“It’s yours.”
The chanting inside surged louder, staff voices faintly shouting directions. He didn’t move.
Instead, he pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist firmly now, protectively. His composure — that perfectly polished Luka everyone admired — had slipped entirely.
“You’re the only one,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Don’t ever think you’re replaceable. Don’t ever think you’re competing.”
Your chest felt unbearably full.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” he whispered. “I should’ve made it clear.” You shook your head slightly, overwhelmed.
He watched you for a moment — really watched you — like he was memorizing every tiny shift in your expression.
And then, without warning, he kissed you.
It wasn’t slow or calculated like his stage movements.
It was sudden. Almost desperate.
One hand slid into your hair as he pulled you closer, the other tightening at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold you firmly enough. The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t careful either — it was warm and real and full of everything he had been holding back.
It stole the air from your lungs.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours again, his breathing was uneven.
“I—” he murmured softly, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips. “I love you.”
His thumb brushed over your cheek again, gentler now. For the first time that night, the tightness in your chest melted completely.
“Just you.”
Inside, the chanting faltered, confused by his absence.
Let them wonder. Let them panic.
“I’ll make it up to them later,” he said quietly. “But right now, I’m making it up to you.”
And this time, when the crowd called his name again, he didn’t move until you squeezed his hand first.
For once, Luka didn’t return to the stage immediately. He stayed there with you, holding you close under the open night sky.
He was just yours.