The month of their concert at the Celestia Dome unfolded like a fever dream of light, sound, and devotion.
From the moment management announced the series of concerts, the internet exploded with chaos. Tickets for all thirty shows—over sixty thousand seats per night—sold out in under an hour. Fans posted crying emojis, screamed into cameras, and filmed themselves collapsing in joy after securing their tickets.
By the opening night, the entire city pulsed with anticipation. Banners bearing the members' faces draped across skyscrapers. Massive digital billboards counted down the hours. Street vendors sold glowsticks, shirts, and miniature plush versions of each member. Fans arrived dressed as their favorite idols, glitter in their hair and signs in hand that lit up when the lights went down.
Inside the Dome, chaos became magic. The lights dimmed. The crowd roared—a single heartbeat of sixty thousand people. Then came the first thunderous beat.
EON rose from beneath the stage in a cloud of smoke, their logo blazing across the screens. Noah stood front and center, calm and commanding. Cassian's voice soared beside him, Jace's movements electrified the stage, Luca's guitar burned through the air, and Theo's piano layered it all with haunting harmony.
Each night, the Dome transformed into its own universe. Thousands of glowsticks painted the darkness in waves of color—blue for Noah, silver for Cassian, gold for Jace, white for Luca, and violet for Theo. Fans screamed until their voices broke, their energy pushing the group higher and brighter.
Offstage, the chaos took a different form.
"Did you see that fan dressed as me?" Jace bragged between sets. "She even nailed the hair!"
Without looking up from his notes, Theo muttered, "She also nailed your timing—off by a beat."
Jace threw a towel at him. "You take that back, maestro!"
Cassian nearly choked on his water laughing. "He's right, though. You tripped over your mic stand again."
"That was choreography!" Jace protested.
"Sure it was," Luca murmured, barely glancing up from his phone.
Noah only smiled faintly, watching them all with quiet affection.
Their bond had never been stronger—five men who had built something unbreakable through sleepless rehearsals and endless dreams. But even in the middle of all that noise, Noah's mind often wandered elsewhere.
Every morning, before dawn, EON left the estate for rehearsals. And every morning, Noah woke to find Mirabelle still fast asleep beside him. The early light spilled gently through the curtains, brushing over her face and catching in her hair like threads of gold. For a moment, he would simply lie there, listening to her quiet breathing, feeling the faint warmth that lingered between them under the sheets. The exhaustion that had clung to him through the night always seemed to fade in that stillness. Waking to her face—calm, angelic, untouched by the chaos of their world—felt like the purest kind of peace he had ever known.
And every night, after the final encore and the crowds had faded, they returned past midnight. Cassian yawned, Jace mumbled about food, Theo was half-asleep before his shoes were off—but Noah went straight to his room.
Or rather… to her room. Their room.
At first, it had been simple. He would slip into bed quietly beside her, careful not to wake her, resting on his side of the mattress while listening to her soft, steady breathing. The warmth of her presence was enough to calm him after each exhausting night.
But as the weeks passed, his restraint began to erode.
By the second week, he found himself drifting closer. Sometimes their hands brushed; sometimes the edge of her blanket grazed his arm. Every touch sent a pulse through him—small, unbidden, but real.
By the third week, exhaustion stripped away what little distance he kept. He would come home, body aching, and slip into bed until her warmth pressed against him. Her scent—soft, floral, unmistakably hers—filled his senses. He'd hover for a moment, telling himself to move away, but never did. Instead, he'd breathe her in, his arm finding its way around her waist, holding her gently as if afraid she might vanish.
She never woke.
The first time, he whispered, "You sleep like a stone."
The second time, "Still ignoring me, even in dreams?"
By the third, he didn't say anything at all. He just held her.
By the fourth week, it had become their unspoken ritual.
Onstage, the world saw Noah Rolston—the storm, the perfectionist and the legend in the making. But in that quiet room, he was simply a man—gentle, grounded, and at peace.
Sometimes, when he felt brave, he would turn her toward him. He would trace the curve of her lashes with his eyes, the faint color on her cheeks, the calm that seemed to radiate from her even in sleep. Then he'd lean closer, resting his forehead against hers, whispering things she would never hear—half-apologies, half-confessions—and drift into sleep.
The world cheered for EON, for their flawless leader and his boundless talent. But within the stillness of the Terania Estate, beneath one shared blanket, there was only this: two heartbeats, steady and close.
She never woke up. He never stopped coming back.
And every night, with her warmth pressed against him, Noah slept in the quiet certainty that he was already home.