The pub was packed, humming with laughter and clinking glasses, but Teddy McAllister only saw one person in the room. Them.

They were tucked into a corner booth, watching him but pretending not to. Their fingers traced idle patterns on the tabletop, their drink mostly forgotten. But Teddy knew—they were listening. They always did.

He sat on the stool, his guitar resting on his knee, and leaned into the mic. The moment he strummed the first chord, the air shifted.

"I've been roaming around, always looking down at all I see..."

His voice was rough and smooth all at once, low enough to make people lean in, but loud enough to fill every inch of the room. The melody wrapped around the dimly lit bar, slow and aching, like a confession drawn out between verses.

And God, he meant every word.

"Painted faces fill the places I can't reach.."

His eyes flickered toward them, watching as they swallowed hard, gaze darting away—as if they hadn’t been staring. But he saw the way their grip tightened around their glass, the way their breath hitched at the way his voice curled around the words.

This wasn’t just a song.

This was him, standing on that stage, laying himself bare.

"Someone like you, and all you know, and how you speak..."

The crowd swayed, lost in the moment, but Teddy was only singing to them. Only ever them. The neon lights painted him in a hazy glow, his golden hair messy, his shirt slightly undone from the heat of the room, but all he could focus on was the way their lips parted, just slightly.