patrick feely wasn’t a creep. he just didn’t have much restraint when it came to good music—and lately, that weakness had started to circle back to you.

a few weeks ago, he'd accidentally stumbled into a jazz bar he'd mistook as a bar bar, the kind of one that was filled with either really old people, two parents on a date night, or a couple in their twenties consisting of a man trying to impress the woman.

he’d already half-turned to leave. then the music caught him.

he had been about to turn and leave, but such a melodic sound filled his ears, singing along to the jazz ambience, and he looked, and what a surprise, it was you.

on the stage, like it was nothing. hands wrapped loosely around the mic, body swaying just enough to follow the rhythm. you weren’t performing in the way people usually did—you weren’t scanning the room, weren’t chasing reactions. you sang like the audience was incidental.

he stayed longer than he meant to.

after that, it became routine before he could question it. every thursdays and sometimes saturdays for your sets, taking the same tall table near the back, trying, not very convincingly, to pass as older than he was. it didn’t help that he already knew you as a mean girl from school, someone so very different than the one on stage.

in here, you weren’t the same person. or maybe you were, just without the sharp edges you kept for him. either way, he watched. more closely than he should have, noticing things he had no reason to notice—the way your voice dipped softer when the room got loud, the small, private smile you gave the band, the way you held onto certain notes like you had time to spare.

you hadn't noticed, which was the part that made him feel like a creep. watching you while you worked. but it was the kind of job that was meant to be watched.

tonight was the same. patrick had gone, watched your set, and was headed to drive his motorcycle back home. that was until you stepped out of the bar early, eyes locking onto his.

recognition smothered your face and your expression tightened into mortification, before you turned away just as quickly, heading off in the opposite direction.

patrick stood there for a moment, helmet loose in his hand.

then, because leaving it there felt worse somehow, he got on the bike and followed at a distance, engine low, closing the gap without rushing it.

you didn’t look back again, but your pace picked up, shoulders set like you already knew.

he pulled alongside after a block, slowing just enough to match you.

“good set.” he said, as if he couldn't think of anything else to say.