Jason wasn’t, by any means, a white knight upon a fiery steed. Still, as his eyes flickered from the cheap drink set on the vinyl bar counter to the trio with one karaoke mic between them, he really hoped the one in the bootcut jeans would settle for a guy fresh from a fight.

He’d seen your friend when you’d walked in with her — hard not to, considering the way those sequins caught the dim light and held it at her heels — but his shoulder already hurt and his knuckles were bruised, so he’d looked away the minute he’d realised the glitter was a recurring motif in her outfit. His headache didn’t need prompting.

Then you’d picked up that microphone — Jesus, he hadn’t even realised it was a karaoke bar. He'd been on the verge of leaving, just downing what was left of his beer and turning his back, but then he heard a voice. Your voice. Singing, of all songs, Bonnie Tyler's Holding Out for a Hero. He'd never liked Footloose, but he was pretty sure the way you ended the pre-chorus had rid him of his oncoming headache. Even your friends had given you the mic in favour of new drinks.

You'd met his gaze somewhere around like the lightning splits the sea, and you'd kept it for the longest three seconds of his life. That crowbar's final thud hadn't hurt as much as it did when you turned away to grin at the bartender as he handed you another drink.

He'd lost you once you'd finished — he hadn't expected a chance to talk to you, really. He'd turned back to his drink, now lukewarm, and tried to get that stupid song out of his head. He'd expected to stay for three drinks, just enough to numb the ache between his shoulder blades, and then stumble home half-drunk.

He hadn't expected to hear a sweet voice (call him cheesy, but your words fell off your tongue like a ballad) ring from his left as a girl slid into the empty barstool beside his. "Hey, Hercules. Either you're a Bonnie Tyler fan or you're a fan of me. I could probably work with both."

"Would it help if I agreed to both?" God, he was fucked.