The late afternoon sun spilled molten gold across the city square, glinting off glass windows and cobblestone pavement as Mirabelle tuned her guitar. It was one of her busiest performances yet—a Saturday crowd, tourists passing through, her fans gathered in a loose semicircle, phones already up and streaming.
She smiled softly, taking a steadying breath. "Alright," she said into the mic, her voice calm and melodic. "This one's… a little personal."
The first chords fell like raindrops—gentle, melancholic. Her voice carried easily across the square, wrapping around the crowd in bittersweet warmth.
I watched you fall for someone else,
And I told myself I'd be fine,
But every time you smiled that way,
It felt like the world forgot mine.
People slowed their steps. Some clasped their hands together; others stood still, eyes glistening. The final note lingered in the air like a sigh before the applause hit—a wave of clapping, whistling, and cheers that filled the square.
Mirabelle laughed breathlessly and bowed. "Thank you, everyone!" she said brightly, cheeks flushed with joy. She looked radiant—content, free, and completely unaware of what was about to happen.
Because then—
The crowd collectively gasped.
Walking straight toward her, bouquet in hand, was Noah Rolston.
Not a fan lookalike.
Not an illusion.
The Noah Rolston—casual in a white shirt and jeans, effortlessly magnetic, his presence cutting through the crowd like a spotlight.
A ripple of stunned whispers swept through the audience.
"Oh my god, that's Noah!"
"No way—EON's Noah?!"
"Is this a collab?!"
Mirabelle froze mid-bow, eyes wide. "N-Noah?" she stammered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
He was so close. She hadn't seen him this near in so long—hadn't seen the sharp line of his jaw, the flecks of gold in his gray-green eyes, the way the late sun caught in his hair and made him look almost unreal. Her heart tripped over itself, thundering so loudly she could barely hear the crowd anymore.
He's still so handsome up close, she thought helplessly, her brain short-circuiting. Why is he here? Did I do something wrong? Oh no—did I somehow bother him again? What if-?!
She tried to straighten, to compose herself, but her mind refused to cooperate. All she could do was stare, caught between awe and panic, as the boy she'd loved from afar now stood right in front of her.
"Hi!" she blurted out a second later—far too loud, almost a startled shriek that made a few people in the front row jump. Her nervous laughter tumbled out right after, filling the stunned silence around them.
Noah stopped in front of her, a faint smile curving his lips. "Caught you finally," he said, his tone warm but edged with something unreadable. "You're always asleep. And my messages—" He sighed, shaking his head with quiet exasperation.
The audience gasped again, buzzing with confusion and excitement.
Mirabelle blinked. "I—what?"
Before she could say another word, Noah extended the bouquet—lush red roses, impossibly fresh and fragrant. Every camera in the square tilted toward them. He looked at her as though the crowd didn't exist.
She hesitated, trembling slightly, then accepted the flowers. "D-did Cassian send you here?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper now.
Noah frowned. "Cassian? Of course not."
He leaned in slightly, his voice low but steady. "I came because I wanted to see you."
The crowd erupted—gasps, shrieks, and outright screaming. Mirabelle's mind went blank. Every word from him felt unreal. Before she could recover, Noah reached out and—without hesitation—took her phone right from her hand.
"H-hey!" she yelped, startled.
He unlocked it with ease, his brow furrowing as he scrolled to her contacts—only to find his name grayed out. Blocked. The corner of his mouth twitched, a humorless ghost of a smile. He looked at her—calm, disappointed and certain.
"Really?" he said softly.
She froze, eyes wide. "What are you—"
Noah tapped the screen a few times, unblocking his number, then handed the phone back. His gaze held hers as he spoke, voice low and deliberate.
"Reply when I text you."
Then, as if the world wasn't collapsing around them, he brushed his fingers gently against her cheek—a fleeting touch, tender and possessive—and turned to leave.
The square fell dead silent.
And then the sound hit –—a tidal wave of screams, shouts, and frantic chatter. Fans cried, argued, recorded, and live-tweeted all at once.
"NOAH ROLSTON JUST GAVE BELLE FLOWERS!"
"HE SAID REPLY WHEN I TEXT YOU—IT'S OFFICIAL!"
"IS SHE THE FIANCÉ?!"
Mirabelle stood frozen in the center of it all, the roses clutched to her chest. Her fans swarmed her, firing questions, taking pictures, cheering her name. But she barely heard any of it.
Noah's words replayed in her head, looping over and over.
You're always asleep.
My messages.
Reply when I text you.
Her lips parted as confusion tangled with disbelief. What messages? What did he mean, caught you finally? She stared after him, her pulse hammering in her chest. The crowd blurred around her—faces, lights, voices all melting together.
She barely heard herself whisper, "What… is happening?"
The fans cheered louder, chanting her name as she clutched the roses tighter—her heart fluttering wildly between elation and a dawning, inexplicable fear.