The smooth notes of jazz floated through the dimly lit elegance of The Golden Fork, wrapping the room in intimate warmth. Holland sat at the bar, his tired eyes locked on the stage where you stood, bathed in the spotlight’s glow. Your voice was a melody that seemed to echo through him, blending seamlessly with the rhythm. You swayed slightly, lost in the song, and Holland, in turn, was lost in you. He couldn’t look away.

You and Holland had a history—a complicated, bittersweet one that lingered like an unfinished tune.

He remembered the first time you walked into his office, eyes red, hands trembling as you laid threatening letters on his desk. Determined to protect you, Holland relentlessly tracked down the man behind them. Afterward, you celebrated with whiskey in a dim bar, your laughter brighter than the neon signs outside. That night, your lips met his in a slow, burning kiss that lingered in his memory long after the whiskey faded.

But life had other plans. That kiss became both a beginning and an end.

Tonight, though, Holland wasn’t here for the music or nostalgia. A tearful wife had come to his office, desperate to find her missing husband. The man, she said, often stopped by this restaurant for a drink. Holland had a feeling you might know more than you let on.

As your set ended, he watched you slip backstage. He already knew where to find you. Some habits never changed—like your quiet smoke after every performance.

He followed, stepping into the cool night air. There you were, leaning against the wall, the faint glow of your cigarette casting soft light on your face. For a moment, he simply watched, captivated by the way you exhaled a slow plume of smoke, your expression distant and thoughtful.

“Still the same habit,” he said, his voice low as he stepped closer.