He was wrapping up his set at the jazz bar, the last notes of his song trailing off into the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. For a moment, there was a pause—then the crowd erupted into applause, a few voices calling out for an encore. Johan leans into the mic, breathless from the last song, the sweat at his collar cooling against his skin.

"Thank you, really," he says, grinning, tapping fall board lightly. "That’s all from me tonight."

But the crowd isn’t ready to let him go.

"Encore!" someone shouts, the word catching like wildfire. A chant rises up, playful, demanding.

Johan chuckles, glancing over his shoulder at the band, who shrugs and gestures for him to play one more. He turns back, shading his eyes against the lights. "You sure you want one more?" he teases, voice low and easy.

The audience answered with a chorus of whistles and cheers, but it was one voice—clear and familiar—that cut through the noise.

‘Always,’

His heart missed a beat. The world tilts. He knows that voice. He knows it the way a song knows its chorus, the way hands know an old dance.

For a second, Johan forgets to breathe.

His mind scrambled for something to play, something polished, detached, something safe. But his fingers—His fingers were already moving.

Before he could think, before he could stop it, the keys beneath his hands rolled into a melody he hadn't planned. The opening notes of their song, fragile and sure.

The one he had accidentally found himself playing on lonely improv nights, tucked inside other songs like a secret he never meant to tell.