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Penelope nudges me gently, pulling me out of my trance. She flashes a thumbs-up, nods toward the screen where the feed I’m filming is being streamed in real-time to the band’s official story.

I nod back, all autopilot.

But my fingers are trembling.

Because even surrounded by fire and light and twenty thousand screaming fans…

It’s still him I see.

And it’s still him I feel.

God help me.

The second song rolls in hard and fast, a gritty anthem that’s always been a crowd favorite—built on driving percussion and lyrics that sound like a rebellion wrapped in heartbreak. Benji and Carson hit the chorus in perfect sync, shoulders bumping, faces lit with unfiltered joy.

Thorin belts the bridge like a man possessed, and Madison Square Garden sings it back to him like a prayer. It’s goosebumps on top of goosebumps, the kind of moment that feels suspended in time—like maybe this is where the world stops spinning, just for a little while.

The camera’s steady in my hands, but inside I’m the opposite—spiraling. Because no matter how good they are—how goddamn perfect every note, every light cue, every drop of sweat flung into the air is—I’m still watching Fletch.

He’s a machine back there, but not in the way that means cold or robotic. He’s kinetic. Electric. Each hit of the snare is like a heartbeat, each crash of the cymbal a raw, guttural exhale. His arms are slick with sweat, hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving like he’s tearing through something invisible.

And when the tempo kicks into that rapid-fire outro, his head tips back.

That smile finally flashes.

Rockstar.

It’s quick—there and gone in a blur of strobe and fog—but it’s the kind of smile that makes you forget how to breathe. That reckless, unapologetic grin that says I was born to do this. The kind of smile that used to crack jokes over diner pancakes at two a.m. The kind of smile that used to be just for me.

Now?

Now it belongs to the lights. The fans. The music.

And still, I feel it in my bones.

The drums build, thunder rolling in his hands. Thorin prowls the edge of the stage, hyping the crowd, while Carson kneels at the edge, letting a lucky fan clutch his hand as the arena goes wild.

But it’s the silence between one cymbal crash and the next that grabs me. A sliver of breath. A beat that hangs too long.

Fletch falters.

Only slightly—so small the crowd would never know. But I see it. Feel it. My fingers tighten on the camera as he recovers seamlessly, but his jaw is tense again. His eyes darker. Somewhere between here and somewhere else.

And I know that look.

He’s in it now. Not just the music—but the moment. The memories. The ache.

The part of him he doesn’t show the crowd.

The part of him that still breaks the same way I do.

Penelope shifts beside me, mouthing something I don’t catch. But I nod, angling the camera up as a rain of pyrotechnic sparks lights the edge of the stage like it’s catching fire.

And still, my lens drifts back.

Back to the guy behind the kit.

The one who’s always been a little too loud, a little too wild, and somehow always the one I can’t stop loving, even when I know better.