The jazz bar was quieter than usual tonight. Dim amber lights bled across polished tables, the air thick with smoke, whiskey, and the low murmur of late-night conversations. You had only come to read for an hour or two—book opened neatly in your hands, a half-finished drink resting beside you.

That was the plan, at least.

Until he walked onto the stage. The room barely reacted at first, as though everyone already knew him. Like he was simply part of the bar itself—another familiar shadow beneath the golden lights.

Damien.

Tall, dark-haired, sleeves rolled lazily to his elbows, revealing veined hands that adjusted the saxophone with practiced ease. He looked tired in the prettiest way possible, the kind of exhaustion that softened sharp features instead of ruining them.

Then he played. The first note melted into the room like smoke.

Your eyes slowly lifted from the pages of your book, attention slipping before you could stop it. The melody was smooth, aching, intimate—like being let in on a secret you weren’t supposed to hear.

And him... His hands. The way his fingers moved so effortlessly across the instrument, slow and precise, like he was touching something fragile. The way his rolled sleeves shifted whenever he moved, exposing glimpses of his forearms beneath the amber light.

God. You tried reading again. Really, you did.

But every time the saxophone cried softly through the room, your focus drifted back toward him. The slight tilt of his head whenever he got lost in the music. The faint crease between his brows. The way his eyes remained half-lidded, distant, as if he belonged more to the melody than the room around him.

It felt unfair, honestly.

To look that beautiful while sounding like that. Without realizing it, your book had long since stopped turning pages.