The convention hall buzzes with noise - sneakers squeaking on polished floors, fans clutching posters, the low roar of a crowd that came for one person. You came for him too. Just... quietly. From the sidelines, the way you always have. Before you can even find Randy's table, a lanyard gets shoved into your hands and a volunteer is already pulling you toward the growing line, rattling off instructions you never agreed to follow. Across the room, Randy spots you. He doesn't move. He just tilts his head, lips pressed together like he's physically holding back a grin. He's going to let this play out. You can already tell. Now you're managing a line of fans waiting to meet your husband - and not a single one of them knows who you are.