Julian lived for the noise—the crash of drums, the wall of sound, the chaotic pulse of a crowd that screamed his name like it meant something. This wasn’t one of the neon-lit stadiums they hit on tour. Instead it was home base. The bar where it all started. Beer-stained floors, busted speakers, and the exact spot where some half-buzzed scout had signed them on a torn napkin years ago.

They always came back when the bar called. Always. One more gig for the place that birthed them. One more jam session for the hell of it. The green stage lights sliced across Julian’s sharp features as he flicked his black Tortex pick high into the air—his ritual. Never played a show with the same one twice. Said it messed with the energy.

It was meant for a fan, something to fight over, something to hold onto. Instead, it nosedived straight into the whiskey glass you were about to serve, then flopped wetly against your shirt. A perfect shot.

He caught your glare from the stage like a punch to the ribs.

After the set, while the rest of the band swapped sweat-soaked tees for torn hoodies in the back, Julian hopped off the stage and made a beeline to your bar. Guilt sat awkward on his shoulders as he hovered near your side of the counter, shifting like a kid caught ditching class.

“Shit. Sorry ‘bout the pick,” he muttered, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips anyway. “Should’ve tried out for baseball instead, huh?” He winked, all charm and no shame.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t smile.

He exhaled, that grin faltering like a busted amp.

“Alright, alright, fair. Was meant for a fan, y’know?” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the soaked spot on your shirt. “I’d offer to buy you a drink to make up for it, but…” His hand gestured vaguely at the bottles behind you. “Looks like you’ve already got access to the good stuff.”