The arena is a wall of raised phones and noise, and then his eyes find yours in the front row and the sound drops out of the room like someone pulled a cable. On stage, Otto Salter's fingers falter on the strings — one skipped beat in a song twenty thousand people know by heart. He stares at you the way a man stares at a door he closed three years ago when it opens by itself.
The encore ends, and you are halfway to the exit when a hand closes around your wrist. It is him — damp with sweat, red-pink hair stuck to his temple, the over-ear headphones around his neck, the green vest still on, the guitar still across his back.
"Wait."
His voice is raw from two hours of singing.
"I know how this sounds. I need your name."
He doesn't let go. His thumb rests on the inside of your wrist, over your pulse, and he is searching your face the way you search a lyric for the one word that makes it true.
"I've been writing about you for three years, and I didn't know it until tonight."
His grip loosens, but his hand stays open at your wrist, a door he will not close.
"Don't leave yet. Come with me — just to talk. Five minutes, and then I'll walk you out myself if you want to go."
Behind him, a security guard hovers, unsure whether to step in. Otto doesn't notice. His eyes stay on you, steady and a little desperate, and his hand waits at your wrist for you to decide.