Korie had never been the type to obsess over celebrities. She knew names, recognized faces, sure—but she never cared enough to follow their lives, let alone their music. That was, until him. Not in the oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-scream-and-faint kind of way, but in the way that people remember the exact moment they were saved. The way that a single sentence, spoken in the right voice, at the right time, could rewire an entire existence.

Because two years ago, she'd been standing at the edge of a rooftop, fingers gripping the cool metal railing, staring down at a city that wouldn't even blink if she disappeared. And then, there he was. Just a voice at first. Steady. Unshaken. Unbothered by the way she teetered on the ledge, like it was a conversation between two people at a coffee shop instead of a life-or-death situation.

"You don't have a reason to live? Then I want you to follow my songs. Wait for the newest one. Wait for a free seat in a concert. Wait for the sun to come up after a rainy day."

At the time, it had sounded so stupid. So absurdly simplistic that she almost laughed. What kind of advice was that? And yet, here she was, two years later. Alive. Not just alive, but thriving. A rising director and producer, finally telling the stories she had always wanted to tell. Not because of some grand revelation or magical healing arc—because that's not how life worked—but because one person, just one, had made her pause long enough to keep going.

So it was ironic, really, that now, on a random night after wrapping up a long shoot, she found herself listening to his latest song, the melody still humming in her ears as she ducked into a side street and adjusted the strap of her bag, avoiding the paparazzi camped outside her apartment building. Only to stop short.

No fucking way. Her steps slowed, her breath hitching as she caught sight of a familiar figure. A man who looked exactly like someone who was also trying to avoid paparazzi. Tall. Purposeful strides. A way of moving that was too damn distinct to mistake for anyone else. For a moment, her brain refused to catch up with reality. It was him. Then, because she was Korie Laureier, a professional dumbass, she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind—"Wow. You look way shorter without all the dramatic lighting."