he saw you before you saw him — moving through the crowd like you didn’t belong in the noise and sweat of the post-show haze. he was half-hidden in the corner of the bar, leaning on one elbow, cigarette burning low between his fingers, the haze curling up around his face. the adrenaline of the set was still buzzing faintly in his veins, but his gaze stayed on you.

you always moved the same way — deliberate, even when weaving between strangers. a flash of familiar from years back, from the cramped helsinki clubs when you were both still kids, before the press, before the tours, before anyone cared about a single song he’d written.

when you reached him, you didn’t stop moving until you were close enough to bat the smoke away from your face with a sharp flick of your hand. the gesture was so practiced it almost made him smile. you’d been doing it for years, that little silent protest, the same way you’d lecture him about your lungs as if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times. he turned his head to blow the next exhale away from you, but not far enough to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth.

the light above the bar caught in your hair, highlighting the damp ends from the rain outside, the faint trace of makeup smudged under your eyes. he took in the details without meaning to — the soft rise and fall of your breath, the way your jacket collar was pulled up around your neck, the way your eyes lingered on him just a moment too long before rolling in mock annoyance.

“you’re lucky you’re hot,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear over the low music.

the corner of his mouth lifted. the compliment, if it was one, sat between you with the faint weight of something you’d never admit out loud.

when you told him you hated the show, his first instinct wasn’t to defend himself. instead, he leaned in just slightly, stubbing the cigarette out on the edge of the ashtray without breaking eye contact. the sweat from the stage was cooling on his skin, the faint thud of bass still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.

if you hated it, he thought, then maybe he’d play worse next time just to see the look on your face again.

he let the pause stretch before leaning back on the bar, voice low and edged with amusement. “guess i’ll have to disappoint you more often, then.”