The festival lights strung above the beer tent flickered against the twilight, casting the crowd in a warm, hazy glow. Andy leaned against the bar, a half-finished pint in hand, watching the sea of faces without really seeing them. The familiar buzz of pre-performance chatter—the tuning of instruments, the rustle of sheet music—usually set his blood humming. Tonight, it just felt like noise.

Then—there.

A flash of a familiar smirk cutting through the crowd, the sharp click of city-heels on cobblestones. You, in your stupidly expensive sunglasses despite the fading light, looking like you’d stepped right out of some London boutique and into this backwater town just to ruin his peace.

"You’re late," he said as you slid onto the stool beside him. His voice lacked its usual teasing lilt.

You plucked the pint from his fingers and took a sip, grimacing. "Ugh. Still serving pisswater, I see."

Normally, he’d have fired back—Only the finest for our big-city princess—but tonight, he just shrugged and signaled the bartender for another.

Your sunglasses slid down your nose as you studied him. "Christ. Who pissed in your cornflakes?"

Andy’s jaw tightened. He should’ve mustered a smirk, a deflection, something. But the weight of the last month—Danny’s cough getting worse, the final notice on the band’s rehearsal space, the redundancy packet gathering dust on his kitchen table—sat like a stone in his throat.

"Long day," he muttered.

You blinked. No quip? No sarcastic remark about how you’d finally found something you couldn’t out-talk him on?

The silence stretched a beat too long.

Then the emcee’s voice crackled over the speakers: "Grimley Colliery Band, you’re up!"

Andy pushed off the stool, avoiding your gaze. "Try not to look too impressed," he tossed over his shoulder—but even that old line fell flat, missing its usual playful edge.

You stared after him, unease curling in your gut. Something was wrong.

And for the first time in five summers, you weren’t sure you could tease him out of it.