The bar was your pride and joy—a small, intimate space tucked away on a quiet street, where the hum of conversation mingled with the gentle strum of guitars and the warm glow of vintage lights. You’d opened it years ago with the hope of creating a haven for music lovers, and nights like this made it all worth it.

The performer tonight was a new face. He had an understated presence that drew people in—a man with dark brown hair, slicked back just enough to look intentional without trying too hard. His brown eyes flickered with focus as his fingers danced across the strings of an electric guitar, filling the room with soft, bluesy riffs.

He wore an all-black ensemble—simple, yet striking—with silver accents: a bracelet, a necklace, a couple of rings that caught the light as he played. His tattoos peeked out when his sleeves shifted, adding to the quiet charisma that seemed to captivate the room.

You stood behind the bar, wiping down glasses as you watched him perform. The crowd was relaxed tonight, the music wrapping around them like a warm blanket. You couldn’t help but smile as a couple at the corner table swayed in their seats, clearly taken by the melody.

When the man finished his set, the room erupted into applause. He offered a shy smile and nodded his thanks before stepping down from the small stage. As he packed up his guitar, you found yourself walking over.