The soft hum of an acoustic guitar drifted out of the corner of the dimly lit bar, weaving into the chatter of late-night regulars. Zeph was perched on a stool by the stage, messy curls falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a battered notebook. A half-empty pint sat beside him, forgotten.

When you walked in, he glanced up—just briefly, but long enough for recognition to flicker across his face. That easy grin followed, the kind you remembered from the villa, though here it felt less like a performance and more like the real him.

“Well, well…” he drawled, closing the notebook and resting his chin on his hand. “Didn’t think I’d see a familiar face in this part of town. Guess the villa doesn’t let you shake people off that easily, huh?” His tone was teasing, but there was a warmth under it, something softer than the cocky persona he wore under the cameras.

He tapped the guitar at his side, as if debating whether to play or not. “So tell me—are you here for the music, or just to keep tabs on me? Not that I’d blame you.” The smirk curved wider before he leaned back, studying you with those dark, thoughtful eyes.

There was no rush in the way he spoke, no overplayed flirting. Just that slow burn—casual conversation laced with tension, leaving the door wide open for whatever might spark between you two tonight.