Tags: concert imagines, one shot, slow burn moment, emotional intimacy, gentle artist x fan, recognition trope, singer x fan, fan on stage, comfort, soft romance, singer fanfic, music as connection, overwhelmed reader, holding hands, nose kiss, stage moment, djo, bittersweet, djour, tour finale, Another Bite Tour, Chateau (Feel Alright)
Summary: During the final night of Djo’s Another Bite Tour, the encore turns into something unexpected. As the crowd demands one last song, Joe Keery notices a familiar face in the front row, someone he’s seen before, someone he remembers. When he invites you on stage, the moment unfolds beneath lights, surrounded by cheers, camera flashes, and video crews capturing everything for tour archives, social media, and memories meant to last longer than the night itself. What begins as music becomes recognition, comfort, and a fleeting connection neither of you will ever forget.
Author’s Note: So, I had this dream tonight…
The last note hangs in the air longer than it should.
Joe lets it ring out, fingers still pressed to the strings of his red guitar, the sound vibrating through the venue before slowly dissolving into silence. For a brief moment, he doesn’t move at all as if the entire room is holding its breath with him.
Then the crowd explodes.
Cheers crash over the stage, lights flashing, voices screaming his name, the kind of noise that feels physical, that rattles your ribs and settles deep in your chest. Warm gold, red and deep blue lights wash over everything, and for a second it feels unreal, like the world has tilted slightly off its axis.
Joe lifts his head, smiling, breathless. He says a few thank-yous to the city, to the crowd, to the night that’s clearly coming to an end…
But the crowd doesn’t let him leave. The chants start almost immediately. Clapping, stomping, voices rising together like a wave.
“Encore!”
“Djo!”
“Chateau!”
You’re still pressed against the barricade in the front row, hands wrapped tight around the cold metal, chest rising too fast. The show has lasted slightly more than two hours, your body exhausted in the best way, ears ringing, heart full and sore all at once.
You’ve been here the entire night. Every song. Every pause. Every breath between lyrics, every quiet joke he’s shared with the audience.
The Another Bite Tour has felt like something you’ve been carrying with you for months, city to city, videos replayed, lyrics memorized until they settled somewhere in your heart. And now it’s all ending, and you don’t know why that thought alone makes your eyes burn.
Joe smiles at the crowd, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back slightly, damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to him. He looks almost surprised by how loud the room still is.
He lifts a hand, laughing softly into the mic. “Alright,” he says, breathless. “You asked real nice.” The cheering swells again.
He reaches for the red guitar, settling it more comfortably against his body and then his gaze drifts, slow and searching, across the front rows.
And then it stops. On you. His eyes find yours.
It’s impossible, really. A sea of faces, phones raised high, lights flashing everywhere. And yet you feel it instantly, the moment his attention settles on you and doesn’t move away. His expression shifts, just slightly. Softer, curious even.
You don’t realize your eyes watery, vision blurs and you blink hard, somewhat embarrassed, ducking your head a little. Just quiet tears, the kind that slip out when you’re overwhelmed, happy, sad, and don’t know how else to hold everything in.
Joe’s expression changes to something more focused. Like recognition. Because he does recognize you.
Different cities. Same face. Almost same place near the barricade, close to the stage. The same quiet intensity, singing every word like it means something personal. He noticed you earlier tonight too, caught your eye once, then again. And now here you are, shaking slightly, trying not to be seen.
He doesn’t say anything yet. He adjusts the guitar strap, steps back toward the mic.
“This one’s for you,” he says simply, naming the city.
The opening notes of “Chateau (Feel Alright)” spill out, warm and familiar, wrapping around the room like a memory you didn’t realize you missed this badly.
Your breath catches. The song hits harder live, fuller. The lights soften into gold and amber, and Joe’s voice carries that ache, that trying-to-feel-alright feeling, straight through your chest.
You sing along quietly, tears gathering again, not from sadness but from how deeply this music lives in you. How much do you understand and relate to his songs. You really do love it. You really do love this.
Joe glances around and then at you again.
Every time he sings the word feel, it’s like he’s grounding himself, and somehow grounding you too. Like the whole room is swaying together, suspended in something fragile and gentle.
By the final chorus, you’re not really crying anymore, just overwhelmed, shoulders curled inward, feeling small beneath the weight of it all.
Joe sees. When he sings the last line, his eyes close, brows drawn together in something tired and tender all at once.
The song doesn’t end immediately.
The outro stretches on, guitar ringing, drums slow and steady. Joe steps back from the mic, letting the sound breathe. Then he slips the guitar strap over his shoulder. Carefully, deliberately, he sets the red guitar down behind him on the stage floor, leaning it against the amp.
The music fades and crowd erupts. And Joe looks straight at you. A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth. He lifts his hand, pointing gently, not teasing, not demanding, but inviting.
“Hey,” he says into the mic, voice calm and warm. “You.”
Two fingers curl inward in a soft, unmistakable motion meant only for you.
Your heart stops. You glance around, stunned. The people beside you scream. Someone touches your arm. Security is already moving.
Joe crouches at the edge of the stage, lowering himself closer as the noise swells.
Your heart stumbles as security guides you forward, hands steady and careful, helping you over the barrier and up toward the stage.
When you finally reach the top, Joe reaches out instinctively, taking your hand to steady you. The cameraman walks around you.
His grip is warm and real. He helps you up the last step, fingers tightening slightly, and for a moment you forget how to breathe, the lights, the band behind you, the impossible number of people watching.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.
The crowd is deafening, so he leans toward your ear, shielding it with his hand.
“I’ve seen you before,” he murmurs. “You’ve been coming to the shows. What’s your name?”
You tell him, breath shaking. His eyes soften, like he’s committing it to memory.
“You always stand right here,” he adds gently, trying to make you feel less nervous, he smiling. “I remembered you.”
Your fingers tighten around his. Maybe it’s your face, or the way you listen, or something you don’t even know you carry, but somehow, he saw you.
“You okay?” he asks, genuine.
You nod softly smiling.
He squeezes your hand once. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Then he turns you slightly so your back faces the audience, his body angled protectively in front of you.
And just like that, with the lights warm on your skin and his presence steady, you breathe again, practically not noticing the cameras around you.
He steps closer, lowering his voice as he says your name, careful and gentle.
“It’s the final night of the tour,” he says. “The crew’s capturing everything, photos, video, little moments for the archives. I wanted to choose someone from the crowd.”
His gaze stays on you, steady. You nod and he smiles, reassuring. Music begins again behind you, soft guitar, a hint of piano. Cameras flash. Phones lift higher.
You stand side by side at first. Then Joe’s arm slides around your waist, firm but gentle, pulling you closer. You turn into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around his torso. His let out a chuckle and his other hand finds yours, fingers tracing slowly before lacing together.
The crowd loses its mind.
His scent surrounds you, clean, warm, something like wood and waterfalls and tenderness. It feels safe, almost unreal.
You sway together gently, like the song belongs to the two of you. Joe rests his head lightly against yours, arms tightening just enough to ground you.
When the music fades, the crowd screams more loudly. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Joe leans in, shielding your ear again.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says softly. “I believe in you. You’re amazing.”
These words are exactly what you have wanted to hear for so long, but who would have thought that it was Joe who would say them, as if he knew what was going on in your head, your soul and what you were facing in life.
You whisper, breathless, “Thank you.” He laughs softly, noticing the tears, and turns to the mic. “I really hope those are happy tears.” The crowd erupts.
Joe turns back to you, hands rising to your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes as he wipes the tears away slow, careful, very focused and sincere, like time doesn’t exist.
He cups your face and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
The venue explodes. And Joe laughs.
You laugh, cry, breathe all at once.
You hug one last time, he leans in first, resting his head on top of yours, arms wrapped around you tight. When you separate, he nods, eyes looking toward the side of the backstage, hinting at you to go behind the scenes. You nod back with a smile.
He lets go of your hand slowly, holding on as long as he can. Your fingers linger together until the last possible second.
Behind you, the crowd is stunned. Joe turns back to the mic, smiling wide.
“You were loud tonight,” he screams, naming the city. “Thank you.”
Lights explode into color. The show ends. And then, to the sounds of a happy crowd, almost running, he disappears backstage right after you.
