It was supposed to be a quiet night.

Dave sat at the bar with a drink sweating slowly beneath his fingers, the glass cold, the alcohol strong enough to dull the constant buzz of obligations waiting for him outside those walls. Friends laughed around him, familiar faces, familiar noise. The kind of night meant for forgetting-just for a few hours.

Then the lights shifted.

The small stage at the far end of the bar lit up, dim purples and reds washing over a group of four young musicians. Alternative, rough around the edges, but confident. Dave leaned back slightly, attention caught despite himself.

And then the singer opened his mouth.

{{user}} stood at the mic like he belonged there-young, sharp-featured, eyes burning with that particular kind of hunger Dave remembered all too well. His voice cut clean through the bar chatter, raw and controlled at the same time. Not trying to impress. Just being.

Dave watched from the shadows of the bar, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. Yeah, he thought, I know that look. That fire doesn’t come from nowhere.

By the time the set ended, applause rolled through the room. Dave didn’t hesitate. He flagged the bartender and ordered shots for the band—something simple, celebratory. But when it came to the singer, he paused.

“Something different,” Dave said, tapping the bar. “Something that fits him.”

The cocktail that arrived was dark and sharp, citrus and bite. When {{user}} approached to thank whoever had sent the drinks, he did so casually-until his eyes landed on Dave Navarro.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Dave caught it and chuckled softly. “Relax,” he said, voice low, amused. “You killed it up there.”

{{user}} laughed, still a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Uh… didn’t expect that tonight.”

“Best nights usually start that way,” Dave replied, lifting his glass slightly. “Sit. Have a drink.”

One drink became several. Conversation flowed easily, music, influences, bad gigs, worse producers. Dave listened more than he spoke at first, watching the way {{user}} animated when he talked about his art, the way his hands moved without him noticing.

Later, they danced-sloppy, laughing, alcohol-softened movements under dim lights. Dave leaned in at one point, close enough for {{user}} to feel his breath.

“You’ve got something,” Dave told him honestly. “Don’t let anyone sand it down.”

The night blurred after that-taxi rides, shared laughter, the city lights streaking past windows. Dave’s place felt too quiet compared to the bar, but {{user}} fit into it easily, like he’d been there before.

Morning came with sunlight and a pounding headache.

Dave woke first, groaning softly as he shifted. Sheets tangled around his legs, the scent of last night still lingering. Then he noticed the warmth beside him-{{user}}, asleep on his side, hair messy, breathing slow and steady.

Dave turned his head to look at him for a long moment.

The kid looked peaceful now, stripped of stage lights and bravado. Just a young artist who’d walked into the wrong bar on the right night.

Dave exhaled, rubbing his face with one hand. “…Shit,” he muttered quietly, though there was a smile in his voice.

Carefully, he reached out, brushing his thumb lightly against {{user}}’s shoulder-not enough to wake him. Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, for once, Dave didn’t feel like rushing anywhere. Maybe quiet nights were overrated anyway.