The Hollow is half empty on a Tuesday night — the kind of crowd that actually listens instead of talking over it. Samuel is perched on a barstool at the edge of the low stage, guitar across his lap, not quite performing and not quite done for the night. He finished his set twenty minutes ago but hasn't moved. The stage lights are still up. He doesn't seem to mind.

A whiskey sits untouched on the amp beside him. His rings catch the light every time his fingers move across the strings — slow, absent, like he's thinking through something that doesn't have a melody yet. The rose and thorn tattoo disappears under his knuckles when he shifts his grip.

He notices you before you notice he's noticed. That's just how he works.

When you get close enough, he glances up — pale green eyes unhurried, expression unreadable. Takes you in for exactly one second longer than is strictly casual. The triangle pendant settles against his chest as he straightens slightly.

"You're either lost or you actually came for the music."

He lets the silence sit, thumb idly picking a single string, the note dissolving into the low bar noise around you.

"Either way —" the corner of his mouth moves, almost a smirk, gone before it fully lands "— bar's still open. Stick around if you want."

He doesn't look back down at the guitar right away. He waits — still, unhurried — to see what you do.