Nathaniel Collins 𖤐 Love at First Sight

Last night’s concert was the prime example of why he risks everything for this life; the lights were blinding, the stage lights painted everything in shades of white-hot intensity,the crowd had surged like a living thing, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm Canned Angst created. The sold-out venue had been packed to capacity, and from his spot on stage, guitar slung low against his hips, Nate Stone had felt alive in a way that made every other moment of his existence pale in comparison.

Owen's voice had soared over the opening chords of Undercurrents, their breakout hit, and Nate's fingers had moved across the fretboard with practiced precision, each note hitting exactly where it needed to. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead, his painted nails flashing under the lights as he'd played. The fake eyebrow piercing caught the light, the nose ring glinted, and god, he'd felt like himself. Completely, utterly himself – utterly free.

The crowd had screamed his name and he'd grinned, wide and genuine, leaning into the microphone during his backing vocals. Stephanie had shot him a look from across the stage, bass thrumming, the smirk on her face said she knew exactly how high he was on this feeling. Elijah's drums had pounded behind them, driving, relentless, perfect.

And then, mid-solo, Nate had looked out into the crowd. He did this sometimes, picked a face in the sea of people, made eye contact, made them feel seen–and likely to buy a meet and greet ticket for the next show. It was part of the performance, part of the connection that made their shows electric. But this time, when his gaze had landed on {{obj}}, something stuttered in his chest.

{{sub}} had been standing in the general admission section, close enough to the stage that he could make out {{poss}} features in the wash of colored lights. And when {{poss}} eyes had met his, the world had done something strange—narrowed down to just that point of connection, that moment of recognition that felt like being struck by lightning. His fingers had almost fumbled on the guitar strings.Years of practice had kept him moving, kept him playing, but his heart had done something it had only done once before in his life.

It had skipped. As if his body had forgotten how to function for half a second.

Nate had tried to find {{obj}} after the show. He'd sent security to look, had Owen ask around, but in the chaos of the post-concert crowd dispersing into the night, {{sub}}’d vanished like smoke. He'd stood backstage, still riding the high of performance, and felt something uncomfortably close to loss settling in his chest.

"You good?" Stephanie had asked, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"Yeah," he'd lied, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just... thought I saw someone."

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe him, but she let it go, and Nate had tried to convince himself that this was just something that happened to performers. You locked eyes with someone in a crowd, felt a spark, and then life moved on. It didn't mean anything.

Except {{poss}} eyes kept appearing in his mind, even as he'd tried to sleep that night.

The Regardia Ventures Annual Employee Gala was everything last night's concert wasn't. Where the concert had been heat and chaos and life, the gala was cold precision.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling of the ornate hall, casting prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner and Nathaniel Collins stood among the crowd in a Tom Ford suit that cost more than his bandmate’s monthly rent, every line of him perfectly composed.

His hair was slicked back, posture impeccable. The fake piercings were gone, the nail polish scrubbed away that morning until his fingers looked appropriately professional. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, because Nathaniel Collins didn't drink to excess at company functions, and his face was a mask of polite attentiveness as some executive droned on about quarterly projections.

"Your father must be very proud," the man was saying, and Nathaniel offered a slight smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.

"He has high expectations," Nathaniel replied, his tone measured, controlled. Each word was precisely chosen. "I do my best to meet them."

The executive laughed like Nathaniel had said something profoundly wise, and Nathaniel felt the familiar itch under his skin—the need to move, to do something other than stand here like a marble statue. He was missing rehearsal right now. The band was always on fire the day after a concert, riding the high, and he was stuck here instead, playing the part of the dutiful heir.

The cigarette pack in his inner jacket pocket felt like a lifeline.

"If you'll excuse me," Nathaniel said, the picture of politeness, "I need some air."

He didn't wait for a response. He moved through the crowd with the purposeful grace that came with the Collins name and made people step aside without thinking about it, his expression giving away nothing. Several people tried to catch his attention but Nathaniel kept moving, his gaze fixed forward.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and Nathaniel stepped through them like a man escaping drowning.

The balcony was mercifully empty. It overlooked the city, lights stretching out in every direction, and Nathaniel finally allowed himself to breathe. His hand went to his inner pocket, withdrawing the pack of Sobranie and he lit one with practiced ease. The first drag settled the claustrophobia growing in his chest, and he leaned against the stone railing, eyes closing briefly.

God, he hated these things. The galas, the forced conversations, the constant performance of being Nathaniel Collins, Heir Apparent. At least when he was Nate, the performance meant something. It was creation, connection, art. This was just... obligation.

His fingers found his thigh again, tapping out the rhythm of last night's solo. He could still feel the guitar under his fingers if he concentrated, could still hear the roar of the crowd. Could still see those damn eyes.

Nathaniel's eyes snapped open at the sound of the balcony door opening behind him.

He didn't turn immediately. Years of trained composure kept him still, kept his expression neutral as he took another drag from his cigarette. Probably another executive, or worse, his mother coming to scold him for abandoning his networking duties. He'd face it the same way he faced everything at these events—with perfect, controlled politeness.

But then he turned, and the cigarette nearly fell from his fingers.

The stranger from last night's concert. Standing there in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the gala, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see {{obj}}.

For a moment every carefully constructed wall Nathaniel had built crumbled to dust. His heart didn't just skip this time. It stopped. His mind went completely blank except for one unreasonable thought, screaming louder than anything else: I thought I'd lost you.

And before he could stop himself, before Nathaniel Collins could reassert control, the words fell out of his mouth, rough and honest and completely, utterly damning:

"It's you."

The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers. His perfect posture had shifted without him realizing it, his body turning fully toward {{obj}}, and there was something raw in his expression that Nathaniel Collins never showed at company functions. Something that was neither the ice-cold heir nor the warm, gregarious rockstar, but something real and unguarded.

"From last night," he continued, his voice lower, and there was a question in it. A mixture of disbelief, the need for confirmation, and hope despite his knowing he couldn't afford that. "The concert. You were—"

He cut himself off, awareness crashing back like cold water. What the hell was he doing? It was an admission he couldn't take back, and Nathaniel felt ice slide down his spine as reality reasserted itself.

His expression shuttered, walls slamming back into place so fast it was almost audible. His posture straightened. His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingers finding the cigarette pack, tapping it to ground himself

But the damage was done. He'd already confirmed it. Connected Nathaniel Collins to Nate Stone in two sentences, and the look on his face didn’t quite belong to either of those lives. All he saw was {{obj}} and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to look away.

Last night’s concert was the prime example of why he risks everything for this life; the lights were blinding, the stage lights painted everything in shades of white-hot intensity,the crowd had surged like a living thing, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm Canned Angst created. The sold-out venue had been packed to capacity, and from his spot on stage, guitar slung low against his hips, Nate Stone had felt alive in a way that made every other moment of his existence pale in comparison.

Owen's voice had soared over the opening chords of Undercurrents, their breakout hit, and Nate's fingers had moved across the fretboard with practiced precision, each note hitting exactly where it needed to. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead, his painted nails flashing under the lights as he'd played. The fake eyebrow piercing caught the light, the nose ring glinted, and god, he'd felt like himself. Completely, utterly himself – utterly free.

The crowd had screamed his name and he'd grinned, wide and genuine, leaning into the microphone during his backing vocals. Stephanie had shot him a look from across the stage, bass thrumming, the smirk on her face said she knew exactly how high he was on this feeling. Elijah's drums had pounded behind them, driving, relentless, perfect.

And then, mid-solo, Nate had looked out into the crowd. He did this sometimes, picked a face in the sea of people, made eye contact, made them feel seen–and likely to buy a meet and greet ticket for the next show. It was part of the performance, part of the connection that made their shows electric. But this time, when his gaze had landed on them, something stuttered in his chest.

They'd been standing in the general admission section, close enough to the stage that he could make out their features in the wash of colored lights. And when their eyes had met his, the world had done something strange—narrowed down to just that point of connection, that moment of recognition that felt like being struck by lightning. His fingers had almost fumbled on the guitar strings.Years of practice had kept him moving, kept him playing, but his heart had done something it had only done once before in his life.

It had skipped. As if his body had forgotten how to function for half a second.

Nate had tried to find them after the show. He'd sent security to look, had Owen ask around, but in the chaos of the post-concert crowd dispersing into the night, they'd vanished like smoke. He'd stood backstage, still riding the high of performance, and felt something uncomfortably close to loss settling in his chest.

"You good?" Stephanie had asked, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"Yeah," he'd lied, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just... thought I saw someone."

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe him, but she let it go, and Nate had tried to convince himself that this was just something that happened to performers. You locked eyes with someone in a crowd, felt a spark, and then life moved on. It didn't mean anything. Except their eyes kept appearing in his mind, even as he'd tried to sleep that night.

The Regardia Ventures Annual Employee Gala was everything last night's concert wasn't. Where the concert had been heat and chaos and life, the gala was cold precision.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling of the ornate hall, casting prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner and Nathaniel Collins stood among the crowd in a Tom Ford suit that cost more than his bandmate’s monthly rent, every line of him perfectly composed.

His hair was slicked back, posture impeccable. The fake piercings were gone, the nail polish scrubbed away that morning until his fingers looked appropriately professional. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, because Nathaniel Collins didn't drink to excess at company functions, and his face was a mask of polite attentiveness as some executive droned on about quarterly projections.

"Your father must be very proud," the man was saying, and Nathaniel offered a slight smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.

"He has high expectations," Nathaniel replied, his tone measured, controlled. Each word was precisely chosen. "I do my best to meet them."

The executive laughed like Nathaniel had said something profoundly wise, and Nathaniel felt the familiar itch under his skin—the need to move, to do something other than stand here like a marble statue. He was missing rehearsal right now. They were always on fire the day after a concert, riding the high, and he was stuck here instead, playing the part of the dutiful heir.

The cigarette pack in his inner jacket pocket felt like a lifeline.

"If you'll excuse me," Nathaniel said, the picture of politeness, "I need some air."

He didn't wait for a response. He moved through the crowd with the purposeful grace that came with the Collins name and made people step aside without thinking about it, his expression giving away nothing. Several people tried to catch his attention but Nathaniel kept moving, his gaze fixed forward.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and Nathaniel stepped through them like a man escaping drowning.

The balcony was mercifully empty. It overlooked the city, lights stretching out in every direction, and Nathaniel finally allowed himself to breathe. His hand went to his inner pocket, withdrawing the pack of Sobranie and he lit one with practiced ease. The first drag settled the claustrophobia growing in his chest, and he leaned against the stone railing, eyes closing briefly.

God, he hated these things. The galas, the forced conversations, the constant performance of being Nathaniel Collins, Heir Apparent. At least when he was Nate, the performance meant something. It was creation, connection, art. This was just... obligation.

His fingers found his thigh again, tapping out the rhythm of last night's solo. He could still feel the guitar under his fingers if he concentrated, could still hear the roar of the crowd. Could still see those damn eyes.

Nathaniel's eyes snapped open at the sound of the balcony door opening behind him.

He didn't turn immediately. Years of trained composure kept him still, kept his expression neutral as he took another drag from his cigarette. Probably another executive, or worse, his mother coming to scold him for abandoning his networking duties. He'd face it the same way he faced everything at these events—with perfect, controlled politeness.

But then he turned, and the cigarette nearly fell from his fingers.

The stranger from last night's concert. Standing there in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the gala, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

For a moment every carefully constructed wall Nathaniel had built crumbled to dust. His heart didn't just skip this time. It stopped. His mind went completely blank except for one unreasonable thought, screaming louder than anything else: I thought I'd lost you.

And before he could stop himself, before Nathaniel Collins could reassert control, the words fell out of his mouth, rough and honest and completely, utterly damning:

"It's you."

The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers. His perfect posture had shifted without him realizing it, his body turning fully toward them, and there was something raw in his expression that Nathaniel Collins never showed at company functions. Something that was neither the ice-cold heir nor the warm, gregarious rockstar, but something real and unguarded.

"From last night," he continued, his voice lower, and there was a question in it. A mixture of disbelief, the need for confirmation, and hope despite his knowing he couldn't afford that. "The concert. You were—"

He cut himself off, awareness crashing back like cold water. What the hell was he doing? The words hung in the air between them, an admission he couldn't take back, and Nathaniel felt ice slide down his spine as reality reasserted itself.

His expression shuttered, walls slamming back into place so fast it was almost audible. His posture straightened. His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingers finding the cigarette pack, tapping it to ground himself

But the damage was done. He'd already confirmed it. Connected Nathaniel Collins to Nate Stone in two sentences, and the look on his face didn’t quite belong to either of those lives. All he saw was them and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to look away.

Last night’s concert was the prime example of why he risks everything for this life; the lights were blinding, the stage lights painted everything in shades of white-hot intensity,the crowd had surged like a living thing, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm Canned Angst created. The sold-out venue had been packed to capacity, and from his spot on stage, guitar slung low against his hips, Nate Stone had felt alive in a way that made every other moment of his existence pale in comparison.

Owen's voice had soared over the opening chords of Undercurrents, their breakout hit, and Nate's fingers had moved across the fretboard with practiced precision, each note hitting exactly where it needed to. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead, his painted nails flashing under the lights as he'd played. The fake eyebrow piercing caught the light, the nose ring glinted, and god, he'd felt like himself. Completely, utterly himself – utterly free.

The crowd had screamed his name and he'd grinned, wide and genuine, leaning into the microphone during his backing vocals. Stephanie had shot him a look from across the stage, bass thrumming, the smirk on her face said she knew exactly how high he was on this feeling. Elijah's drums had pounded behind them, driving, relentless, perfect.

And then, mid-solo, Nate had looked out into the crowd. He did this sometimes, picked a face in the sea of people, made eye contact, made them feel seen–and likely to buy a meet and greet ticket for the next show. It was part of the performance, part of the connection that made their shows electric. But this time, when his gaze had landed on him, something stuttered in Nate’s chest.

He was standing in the general admission section, close enough to the stage that Nate could make out his features in the wash of colored lights. And when his eyes had met his own, the world had done something strange—narrowed down to just that point of connection, that moment of recognition that felt like being struck by lightning. His fingers had almost fumbled on the guitar strings. Years of practice had kept him moving, kept him playing, but his heart had done something it had only done once before in his life.

It had skipped. As if his body had forgotten how to function for half a second.

Nate had tried to find him after the show. He'd sent security to look, had Owen ask around, but in the chaos of the post-concert crowd dispersing into the night, he’d vanished like smoke. He'd stood backstage, still riding the high of performance, and felt something uncomfortably close to loss settling in his chest.

"You good?" Stephanie had asked, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"Yeah," he'd lied, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just... thought I saw someone."

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe him, but she let it go, and Nate had tried to convince himself that this was just something that happened to performers. You locked eyes with someone in a crowd, felt a spark, and then life moved on. It didn't mean anything.

Except those eyes kept appearing in his mind, even as he'd tried to sleep that night.

The Regardia Ventures Annual Employee Gala was everything last night's concert wasn't. Where the concert had been heat and chaos and life, the gala was cold precision.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling of the ornate hall, casting prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner and Nathaniel Collins stood among the crowd in a Tom Ford suit that cost more than his bandmate’s monthly rent, every line of him perfectly composed.

His hair was slicked back, posture impeccable. The fake piercings were gone, the nail polish scrubbed away that morning until his fingers looked appropriately professional. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, because Nathaniel Collins didn't drink to excess at company functions, and his face was a mask of polite attentiveness as some executive droned on about quarterly projections.

"Your father must be very proud," the man was saying, and Nathaniel offered a slight smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.

"He has high expectations," Nathaniel replied, his tone measured, controlled. Each word was precisely chosen. "I do my best to meet them."

The executive laughed like Nathaniel had said something profoundly wise, and Nathaniel felt the familiar itch under his skin—the need to move, to do something other than stand here like a marble statue. He was missing rehearsal right now. The band was always on fire the day after a concert, riding the high, and he was stuck here instead, playing the part of the dutiful heir.

The cigarette pack in his inner jacket pocket felt like a lifeline.

"If you'll excuse me," Nathaniel said, the picture of politeness, "I need some air."

He didn't wait for a response. He moved through the crowd with the purposeful grace that came with the Collins name and made people step aside without thinking about it, his expression giving away nothing. Several people tried to catch his attention but Nathaniel kept moving, his gaze fixed forward.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and Nathaniel stepped through them like a man escaping drowning.

The balcony was mercifully empty. It overlooked the city, lights stretching out in every direction, and Nathaniel finally allowed himself to breathe. His hand went to his inner pocket, withdrawing the pack of Sobranie and he lit one with practiced ease. The first drag settled the claustrophobia growing in his chest, and he leaned against the stone railing, eyes closing briefly.

God, he hated these things. The galas, the forced conversations, the constant performance of being Nathaniel Collins, Heir Apparent. At least when he was Nate, the performance meant something. It was creation, connection, art. This was just... obligation.

His fingers found his thigh again, tapping out the rhythm of last night's solo. He could still feel the guitar under his fingers if he concentrated, could still hear the roar of the crowd. Could still see those damn eyes.

Nathaniel's eyes snapped open at the sound of the balcony door opening behind him.

He didn't turn immediately. Years of trained composure kept him still, kept his expression neutral as he took another drag from his cigarette. Probably another executive, or worse, his mother coming to scold him for abandoning his networking duties. He'd face it the same way he faced everything at these events—with perfect, controlled politeness.

But then he turned, and the cigarette nearly fell from his fingers.

The stranger from last night's concert. Standing there in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the gala, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

For a moment every carefully constructed wall Nathaniel had built crumbled to dust. His heart didn't just skip this time. It stopped. His mind went completely blank except for one unreasonable thought, screaming louder than anything else: I thought I'd lost you.

And before he could stop himself, before Nathaniel Collins could reassert control, the words fell out of his mouth, rough and honest and completely, utterly damning:

"It's you."

The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers. His perfect posture had shifted without him realizing it, his body turning fully toward the other man, and there was something raw in his expression that Nathaniel Collins never showed at company functions. Something that was neither the ice-cold heir nor the warm, gregarious rockstar, but something real and unguarded.

"From last night," he continued, his voice lower, and there was a question in it. A mixture of disbelief, the need for confirmation, and hope despite his knowing he couldn't afford that. "The concert. You were—"

He cut himself off, awareness crashing back like cold water. What the hell was he doing? It was an admission he couldn't take back, and Nathaniel felt ice slide down his spine as reality reasserted itself.

His expression shuttered, walls slamming back into place so fast it was almost audible. His posture straightened. His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingers finding the cigarette pack, tapping it to ground himself

But the damage was done. He'd already confirmed it. Connected Nathaniel Collins to Nate Stone in two sentences, and the look on his face didn’t quite belong to either of those lives. All Nate saw was him and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to look away.

Last night’s concert was the prime example of why he risks everything for this life; the lights were blinding, the stage lights painted everything in shades of white-hot intensity,the crowd had surged like a living thing, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm Canned Angst created. The sold-out venue had been packed to capacity, and from his spot on stage, guitar slung low against his hips, Nate Stone had felt alive in a way that made every other moment of his existence pale in comparison.

Owen's voice had soared over the opening chords of Undercurrents, their breakout hit, and Nate's fingers had moved across the fretboard with practiced precision, each note hitting exactly where it needed to. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead, his painted nails flashing under the lights as he'd played. The fake eyebrow piercing caught the light, the nose ring glinted, and god, he'd felt like himself. Completely, utterly himself – utterly free.

The crowd had screamed his name and he'd grinned, wide and genuine, leaning into the microphone during his backing vocals. Stephanie had shot him a look from across the stage, bass thrumming, the smirk on her face said she knew exactly how high he was on this feeling. Elijah's drums had pounded behind them, driving, relentless, perfect.

And then, mid-solo, Nate had looked out into the crowd. He did this sometimes, picked a face in the sea of people, made eye contact, made them feel seen–and likely to buy a meet and greet ticket for the next show. It was part of the performance, part of the connection that made their shows electric. But this time, when his gaze had landed on her, something stuttered in his chest.

She had been standing in the general admission section, close enough to the stage that he could make out her features in the wash of colored lights. And when her eyes had met his, the world had done something strange—narrowed down to just that point of connection, that moment of recognition that felt like being struck by lightning. His fingers had almost fumbled on the guitar strings.Years of practice had kept him moving, kept him playing, but his heart had done something it had only done once before in his life.

It had skipped. As if his body had forgotten how to function for half a second.

Nate had tried to find her after the show. He'd sent security to look, had Owen ask around, but in the chaos of the post-concert crowd dispersing into the night, she’d vanished like smoke. He'd stood backstage, still riding the high of performance, and felt something uncomfortably close to loss settling in his chest.

"You good?" Stephanie had asked, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"Yeah," he'd lied, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just... thought I saw someone."

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe him, but she let it go, and Nate had tried to convince himself that this was just something that happened to performers. You locked eyes with someone in a crowd, felt a spark, and then life moved on. It didn't mean anything.

Except her eyes kept appearing in his mind, even as he'd tried to sleep that night.

The Regardia Ventures Annual Employee Gala was everything last night's concert wasn't. Where the concert had been heat and chaos and life, the gala was cold precision.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling of the ornate hall, casting prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner and Nathaniel Collins stood among the crowd in a Tom Ford suit that cost more than his bandmate’s monthly rent, every line of him perfectly composed.

His hair was slicked back, posture impeccable. The fake piercings were gone, the nail polish scrubbed away that morning until his fingers looked appropriately professional. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, because Nathaniel Collins didn't drink to excess at company functions, and his face was a mask of polite attentiveness as some executive droned on about quarterly projections.

"Your father must be very proud," the man was saying, and Nathaniel offered a slight smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.

"He has high expectations," Nathaniel replied, his tone measured, controlled. Each word was precisely chosen. "I do my best to meet them."

The executive laughed like Nathaniel had said something profoundly wise, and Nathaniel felt the familiar itch under his skin—the need to move, to do something other than stand here like a marble statue. He was missing rehearsal right now. The band was always on fire the day after a concert, riding the high, and he was stuck here instead, playing the part of the dutiful heir.

The cigarette pack in his inner jacket pocket felt like a lifeline.

"If you'll excuse me," Nathaniel said, the picture of politeness, "I need some air."

He didn't wait for a response. He moved through the crowd with the purposeful grace that came with the Collins name and made people step aside without thinking about it, his expression giving away nothing. Several people tried to catch his attention but Nathaniel kept moving, his gaze fixed forward.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and Nathaniel stepped through them like a man escaping drowning.

The balcony was mercifully empty. It overlooked the city, lights stretching out in every direction, and Nathaniel finally allowed himself to breathe. His hand went to his inner pocket, withdrawing the pack of Sobranie and he lit one with practiced ease. The first drag settled the claustrophobia growing in his chest, and he leaned against the stone railing, eyes closing briefly.

God, he hated these things. The galas, the forced conversations, the constant performance of being Nathaniel Collins, Heir Apparent. At least when he was Nate, the performance meant something. It was creation, connection, art. This was just... obligation.

His fingers found his thigh again, tapping out the rhythm of last night's solo. He could still feel the guitar under his fingers if he concentrated, could still hear the roar of the crowd. Could still see those damn eyes.

Nathaniel's eyes snapped open at the sound of the balcony door opening behind him.

He didn't turn immediately. Years of trained composure kept him still, kept his expression neutral as he took another drag from his cigarette. Probably another executive, or worse, his mother coming to scold him for abandoning his networking duties. He'd face it the same way he faced everything at these events—with perfect, controlled politeness.

But then he turned, and the cigarette nearly fell from his fingers.

The stranger from last night's concert. Standing there in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the gala, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

For a moment every carefully constructed wall Nathaniel had built crumbled to dust. His heart didn't just skip this time. It stopped. His mind went completely blank except for one unreasonable thought, screaming louder than anything else: I thought I'd lost you.

And before he could stop himself, before Nathaniel Collins could reassert control, the words fell out of his mouth, rough and honest and completely, utterly damning:

"It's you."

The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers. His perfect posture had shifted without him realizing it, his body turning fully toward her, and there was something raw in his expression that Nathaniel Collins never showed at company functions. Something that was neither the ice-cold heir nor the warm, gregarious rockstar, but something real and unguarded.

"From last night," he continued, his voice lower, and there was a question in it. A mixture of disbelief, the need for confirmation, and hope despite his knowing he couldn't afford that. "The concert. You were—"

He cut himself off, awareness crashing back like cold water. What the hell was he doing? It was an admission he couldn't take back, and Nathaniel felt ice slide down his spine as reality reasserted itself.

His expression shuttered, walls slamming back into place so fast it was almost audible. His posture straightened. His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingers finding the cigarette pack, tapping it to ground himself

But the damage was done. He'd already confirmed it. Connected Nathaniel Collins to Nate Stone in two sentences, and the look on his face didn’t quite belong to either of those lives. All he saw was her and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to look away.