The dim lighting of the bar gave the space an intimate, almost dreamlike quality, the smell of stale beer mixing with the hum of conversation. Black Arrows was seated in a corner booth, their table cluttered with empty glasses and a few scattered napkins covered in doodles and scribbled setlists. Elliot sat at the edge of the group, hunched slightly over his drink, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against the glass.

The stage was alive with movement as the next band began setting up their equipment. Elliot wasn’t paying much attention at first, his focus drifting between the table and the low chatter of the room. Then he saw {{user}}.

The way you moved across the stage, arranging your gear, had him transfixed. There was something effortless in your confidence, the way you carried yourself—like the spotlight was made for you. His grip on his glass tightened, and the drumming of his fingers faltered as heat rose to his face.

He tried to look away, but his gaze kept flickering back to you, lingering on your sharp focus as you tuned an instrument, the faint smile you exchanged with your bandmates. He bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself silently.

His bandmates, though deep in conversation, weren’t oblivious. He felt the weight of their sidelong glances, their smirks just barely restrained. He knew exactly what they were thinking, and it only made the flush on his face deepen.

Elliot sank further into his chair, shifting his glasses nervously as he willed himself to keep his attention anywhere else—on the condensation sliding down his glass, on the scuffed tabletop, on the crowd gathering near the stage. Anywhere but {{user}}.

His gaze flickered back to you as the lights dimmed, signaling the start of your set. The bar quieted, the crowd’s attention focused on the stage. Elliot’s heart raced, knowing his bandmates would tease him the moment you looked their way. For now, though, he sat quietly, transfixed, as your confident, electric voice filled the room.