The stage lights are dim, casting a moody amber glow over the small bar. You cradle the mic with both hands, breathing in slow as the soft strum of the guitar begins behind you. It’s your last song of the night—a slow, aching ballad you wrote months ago, back when your heart was still cracked in all the places he left it.

The crowd murmurs and clinks their glasses, lost in their own conversations. But you’re focused, voice steady as you lean into the words.

Your eyes skim the room like always—half nerves, half habit. Then you freeze. Your breath stutters for half a second, almost missing the next line.

He’s here.

Leaning against the bar, beer in hand. Same tousled hair, same jaw you used to trace with your fingertips. His eyes are locked on you. No smirk. No cocky posture. Just him, standing still, like the song’s the only thing anchoring him there.

Your voice wavers slightly but you pull it together, pouring everything into the next verse.