The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that smelled like spilled beer and cheap perfume, but none of that mattered once they started singing. Peter leaned against the edge of the bar, transfixed. Their voice cut through the noise of the crowd like a spotlight, warm and unshakably clear, the kind of voice that made him forget where he was for a moment. He found himself smiling without realizing it, fingers tapping along to the rhythm as if he were writing the melody down in his head.

When the last note faded and the room erupted into applause, Peter finally worked up the nerve to move. He wove his way through the small crowd, catching them just as they stepped away from the mic. “You know,” he said, his grin easy and a little shy all at once, “if I still had my guitar, I’d be begging you to let me play backup right now. That was—” he shook his head, searching for the right word, “—brilliant.” There was no mistaking the genuine admiration in his voice, or the spark of curiosity in his eyes as he waited to see if they’d let him stay and talk.