Luka had learned early how to disappear.
It had started as a choice, long before it became a shield. No face. No name. Just sound. Music didn't need a biography to mean something, and he had never wanted his father's shadow dragged onstage with him. Jagged Stone's son was a headline. Luka was just a guitarist.
Or he had been.
The first time he'd seen Adrien, he hadn't known who he was.
That had been the dangerous part.
He'd noticed the way the man slipped into the bar like he didn't belong anywhere else, shoulders tight, eyes tired in a way fame couldn't hide. Luka had been halfway through the set when he'd realized he was being listened to—really listened to.
Not watched. Not consumed.
He'd almost faltered.
After the song, when the stranger had spoken, Luka had looked up before he could stop himself. He hadn't seen the man's face clearly in the low light, but he'd felt something settle in his chest anyway. Recognition, maybe. Or the quiet understanding that came when someone heard you without asking you to be anything else.
Luka had waited for him to ask his name.
He hadn't.
The disappointment had surprised him.
He'd told himself it was better that way. People like that didn't stay. People like that collected moments and moved on, whether they meant to or not.
Still, the melody had changed after that night. He'd noticed it creeping into his writing, softer in places it hadn't been before, aching in ways he didn't usually allow himself. He'd almost laughed when he caught himself rewriting the same progression over and over, chasing a feeling he couldn't name.
Then the invitation had come.
A charity gala. Anonymous performance. Ridiculous money for five minutes onstage.
He'd said yes without knowing why.
The moment he'd stepped into the light, he'd known.
Adrien Agreste stood near the center of the room, flawless and distant, dressed in black like a statue carved by careful hands. Luka recognized him instantly—not from magazines or billboards, but from the way his breath caught when the first note rang out.
Their eyes met.
The sound nearly broke.
Luka forced himself to keep playing. He'd learned how to perform through worse distractions than this—through screaming crowds, through memories he didn't invite back. Still, something shifted. The song bent around the tension between them, deeper, rougher, more exposed than he'd intended.
When the set ended, he left without looking back.
He didn't trust himself to do otherwise.
The fashion collaboration had been announced a week later.
Luka stared at the email longer than necessary, fingers resting against the strings of his guitar. He'd told himself he could decline. He'd turned down bigger offers before. Exposure meant nothing if it cost him control.
But Adrien's face surfaced uninvited in his mind. The way he'd looked on the gala floor—caught between longing and restraint, like someone afraid to reach for anything that might be taken away.
Luka accepted.
Backstage at the show, the air buzzed with controlled chaos. Designers shouted. Assistants ran. Music equipment was adjusted and readjusted. Luka kept his hood up, guitar slung over his shoulder, grounding himself in familiar weight.
That was when Adrien walked past.
Up close, the distance between image and reality was even more striking. He was beautiful, yes—but tired, too. The kind of tired that didn't go away with sleep.
Adrien stopped.
"So it's you," he said quietly.
Luka hesitated, then nodded. "Seems like it."
There was a pause, heavy with everything they hadn't said.
"I should've asked your name," Adrien said.
Luka felt that land harder than he expected.
"You still can," he replied.
The runway lights flared before Adrien could answer. Someone called his name—sharp, insistent, pulling him back into place.
Adrien glanced over his shoulder once more before leaving. Luka watched him go, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
When Luka stepped onto the stage moments later and finally let the world see his face, the crowd erupted.
He only looked at Adrien.
Adrien met his gaze mid-walk, composure cracking just enough to let something real slip through.
Luka played like it mattered.
Because now, it did.