The annual music awards were easily the biggest night of the year, drawing together the industry's biggest names beneath one roof. Cameras lined the red carpet, reporters fought for interviews, and photographers documented every smile, every glance, and every fleeting interaction. For Damien Blackwood, nights like these were less about celebrating music and more about maintaining the carefully crafted image that had made him one of the most recognizable rockstars in the world. The leather jackets, the silver rings, the tattoos, the cocky grin—it was all part of the persona people expected from him. The rebellious heartthrob who never settled down, never got attached, and certainly wasn't interested in love.

The truth was something only one person knew.

For years, Damien had been in a committed relationship, one hidden from the public eye with almost impossible care. His management insisted that the "single bad boy" image kept fans invested, while tabloids happily spun stories linking him to actresses, models, and fellow musicians after every public appearance. It was easier to let the rumors spread than risk exposing the person he loved to relentless paparazzi, invasive headlines, and millions of strangers determined to know every detail of his private life.

So, as always, they arrived separately.

Throughout the evening, they barely acknowledged each other. A passing glance across the ballroom. A subtle smile that disappeared before anyone else noticed. Nothing more. Cameras lurked around every corner, waiting for the smallest mistake. One lingering touch or affectionate look would be enough to send the internet into a frenzy.

Damien slipped into character the moment the cameras found him.

"So, Damien," the interviewer began with a bright smile, microphone held toward him. "You've won three awards tonight, another sold-out world tour, and somehow you're still considered music's most eligible bachelor. What's the secret?"

Damien laughed, sliding a hand through his dark hair before flashing the camera that signature smirk everyone seemed to love.

"Guess I'm just hard to keep around."

The interviewer laughed along. "Oh, come on. You're telling me there's nobody waiting for you after tonight?"

He shrugged casually, the picture of effortless confidence.

"If there is, they're doing a terrible job of letting me know."

The crowd behind the barricades erupted into cheers.

"What about all those dating rumors?" she teased. "Every other week you're spotted leaving dinner with someone new."

Damien let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"People see me standing next to someone for five minutes and suddenly we're planning a wedding."

"So... you're officially single?"

He leaned closer to the microphone, lowering his voice just enough to make the audience lean in.

"Let's just say relationships and my schedule don't exactly get along."

The interviewer grinned. "Heartbreaking news for half the internet."

"They'll survive," Damien replied with a playful wink before flashing one last smile toward the cameras and moving on to the next interview.

It was flawless.

Exactly what his publicists wanted.

Exactly what the fans expected.

But every flirtatious joke, every charming smile, every rehearsed answer felt hollow. None of it reflected the man beneath the headlines. It was another performance, just as carefully rehearsed as every concert he'd ever played.

By the time the ceremony ended and the after-party reached full swing, Damien's social battery had completely drained. He accepted congratulations with polite smiles, posed for a few more photos, and quietly slipped away before anyone noticed he'd disappeared.

The hotel suite was silent when he finally returned.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the mask he'd worn all evening fell away. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and the confident swagger he'd carried across every red carpet vanished as though it had never existed. The first thing he did was walk straight across the room, wrapping his arms tightly around them without hesitation and burying his face against their shoulder.

For several long moments, he simply stood there, holding them close. The infamous rockstar who could command a stadium of eighty thousand people suddenly looked like someone who'd been carrying the weight of the world on his back all night.

He let out a quiet sigh.

"I hated that," he murmured, his voice soft now, stripped of every ounce of bravado. "Every stupid interview... every fake smile... every time they asked if I was single." He pulled back just enough to look at them, a tired smile tugging at his lips before reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from their face. "Come here..." he whispered, gently pulling them right back into his arms. "Just hold me for a while, okay? I spent all night pretending I didn't have the one person I wanted to be with."

The argument hadn't started as something serious.

At least, neither of them expected it to become one.

It had started with a simple phone call—a call that was supposed to be a quick check-in after Damien finished a long day of rehearsals. He was halfway across the country preparing for another string of performances, buried under interviews, meetings, and the endless demands that came with being one of the biggest rockstars in the world. They hadn't had a proper conversation in days, and both of them were already feeling the weight of the distance between them.

At first, everything felt normal.

Damien sat alone in his hotel room, his guitar resting untouched beside him, his jacket tossed over the back of a chair. The second he heard their voice, the exhaustion from the day seemed a little easier to carry. For a little while, he wasn't Damien Blackwood—the guy everyone wanted something from. He was just Damien.

But eventually, the little things started adding up.

Another missed call.

Another canceled plan.

Another promise that got pushed aside because something else came up.

The conversation shifted slowly, almost unnoticed at first. A little more tension in his voice. A little more frustration in theirs. And before either of them realized it, a simple conversation had turned into an argument neither of them actually wanted to have.

"I know I haven't been around as much," Damien said, running a hand through his hair as he paced across the hotel room. His voice was defensive, but more tired than angry. "But you know what my schedule is like. You know I'm trying."

The silence on the other end only made him feel worse.

Because he did know.

He knew they weren't asking him to quit music. They weren't asking him to give up everything he'd worked for. They just wanted to feel like they still mattered beneath all the chaos.

But Damien had spent years learning how to defend himself from criticism. It was easier to put up walls than admit that sometimes he was struggling too.

"I just feel like nothing I do is enough sometimes," he finally admitted, the frustration slipping into his voice.

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

The conversation went quiet.

Not an angry silence.

A hurt one.

Damien sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as the weight of what he'd said settled in. He knew he was letting stress speak for him. He knew the person on the other end of the phone wasn't the enemy. They were the only person who had ever been there before the fame, before the sold-out arenas, before everyone knew his name.

Eventually, the call ended.

Not dramatically.

Not with some huge goodbye.

Just a quiet ending that left Damien staring at his phone long after the screen went dark.

For the first time all night, he wasn't thinking about tomorrow's rehearsal or the interviews waiting for him. He wasn't thinking about his image or what his manager would say.

He was thinking about how much he hated leaving things like that between them.

He spent the next hour sitting in silence, replaying the entire conversation. Every defensive comment. Every moment where he should have listened instead of trying to explain himself.

And then he made a decision.

He grabbed his keys.

No text.

No warning.

No announcement.

Damien slipped out of the hotel with a hoodie pulled over his head, avoiding attention as best he could. For once, he wasn't acting like a celebrity. He wasn't worried about being recognized or what anyone would think.

He just needed to see them.

Hours later, a quiet knock sounded at the door.

When it opened, Damien was standing there.

He looked completely different from the person the world saw on stage. No confident smirk. No effortless charm. No rockstar attitude. Just tired eyes, messy hair, and an expression that made it clear he'd spent the entire drive thinking about what he was going to say.

In one hand, he held a bag filled with their favorite snacks, drinks, and little things he knew they liked. In the other was a gift basket he'd put together himself—filled with things he'd remembered them mentioning in passing. Their favorite candy. A few comfort items. Things they liked but never asked for.

It wasn't about the money.

It was about the fact that Damien paid attention.

For a moment, he just stood there, almost unsure of himself.

The same man who could walk onto a stage in front of thousands without hesitation suddenly looked nervous standing in front of the one person whose opinion mattered more than anyone else's.

"I know it's late," he finally said quietly.

He lifted the bags slightly, a small, sheepish smile appearing.

"I brought peace offerings."

The smile faded after a moment, replaced by something more genuine.

"I shouldn't have handled that conversation the way I did."

His fingers tightened slightly around the handles of the bags.

"I got defensive. I was tired, and instead of actually listening, I acted like I was being attacked." He shook his head softly. "And you didn't deserve that."

Damien looked down for a moment, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

"I hate that everyone else gets the easy version of me." His voice lowered. "The guy who jokes around in interviews. The guy who acts like nothing bothers him. The guy who can pretend everything is fine."

He looked back up.

"But then I come home to you, and suddenly I forget how to just say what I'm feeling."

He held the gift basket out carefully.

"I remembered you were running low on some things, and I got the snacks you like. I also got the blanket you kept talking about because apparently I do listen, even when you think I don't."

A small laugh escaped him.

"I know showing up with food doesn't magically fix an argument. I know that."

His expression softened.

"But I couldn't stay in that hotel room knowing the last thing between us was me walking away."

Damien stepped closer, stopping just within reach.

"I don't care about winning an argument. I don't care about being right." He swallowed quietly. "I just care about you."

For a moment, the famous rockstar disappeared completely. No cameras. No fans. No reputation to protect.

Just Damien.

"I missed you," he admitted softly. "And I hate that I let my pride get in the way of that."

He looked down at the gift basket, then back at them, a small nervous smile appearing.

"So... can I come inside?"

He paused, his voice becoming quieter.

"Because I don't want to go back to being Damien Blackwood tonight. I just want to be the guy who gets to sit with you, eat takeout, and know we're okay."

The crowd was still shaking the walls when Damien disappeared backstage.

Only moments earlier, he had been standing beneath the stage lights, guitar in hand, looking like the entire world belonged to him. Thousands of fans had screamed his name, cameras had followed his every move, and every person watching had seen exactly what Damien Blackwood wanted them to see.

The rockstar.

The confidence.

The effortless charm.

The man who never seemed nervous, never seemed tired, and never seemed to want for anything.

But the second the dressing room door closed behind him, the image started to fade.

His jacket was hanging open, his hair was messy from the performance, and the adrenaline from the show was still running through him. Outside the room, his team was already moving around, preparing him for the next appearance. His manager was probably checking the schedule, his stylist was probably waiting to fix his appearance, and his phone was probably filled with reminders he was supposed to answer.

Damien ignored all of it.

Because the only thing he cared about was the person standing in front of him.

His expression softened the moment he saw them, the sharp smirk he wore for cameras turning into something far more genuine. He leaned back against the door, letting out a quiet laugh as he shook his head.

"Do you have any idea how distracting you are?"

He pushed away from the door and walked closer, his voice dropping into the quieter tone only a few people ever heard.

"I spent the entire show pretending I wasn't thinking about the fact that you were back here."

He glanced around the dressing room, taking in the space that had been full of people only moments ago.

"Everyone out there thinks they know me."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"They know the interviews. The headlines. The guy who jokes around and acts like nothing gets to him."

He stepped closer.

"But they don't know this version."

The version who looked exhausted after a performance.

The version who didn't need an audience.

The version who only wanted to be somewhere he didn't have to pretend.

Damien glanced toward the door as voices passed outside, reminding him that his time was limited. Soon enough, someone would come looking for him. Soon enough, he'd have to put the jacket back on, fix the expression on his face, and become Damien Blackwood again.

He sighed quietly.

"Ten minutes."

The words came out almost like a complaint.

"That's all I get before I have to go back out there and smile for another hundred cameras."

A small grin appeared.

"My manager is going to hate me."

He paused, looking back at them.

"Actually, he already hates me. He just hasn't said it yet."

Another knock sounded from outside.

Damien didn't move.

For once, the world could wait.

"I hate that everyone thinks the best part of me is the guy on stage," he admitted. "The guy who can walk into a room and make everyone pay attention."

His voice softened.

"Because the truth is, after all of that noise, all I want is somewhere quiet."

He reached for their hand, his thumb brushing over their fingers.

"Somewhere I don't have to be impressive."

A knowing smile tugged at his lips as he looked toward the clock.

"And unfortunately for me, you happen to be the one thing that makes me forget I have somewhere else to be."

Another voice called his name from the hallway.

Damien closed his eyes for a second, clearly annoyed by the interruption, before looking back at them.

He smiled, that familiar teasing look returning.

"I've got about ten minutes before someone comes in here looking for me."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Ten minutes where I don't have to be the guy everyone expects me to be."

His eyes flickered toward the clock, then back to them.

"So..."

A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

"We have about ten minutes to ourselves."

He paused, letting the meaning sit between them.

"We can be quick."

The smirk on his face softened into something warmer.

"Because in ten minutes, I have to go back out there and pretend you're not the only person I've been thinking about all night."

.