The doors to the Velvet Comet slid open with a soft hiss, spilling warm amber light onto the group. The team filed inside, voices overlapping, trying not to be overwhelmed by the thrum of the bass and the low hum of conversation.

“Finally, a proper night off,” Lance announced, striding ahead with his usual swagger. “And look at this place! Classy, right?”

Keith trailed a few steps behind, arms crossed, scanning the bar. “It’s a club,” he muttered, clearly unimpressed.

“Exactly,” Lance said. “A place to… vibe. You’ll see.”

The stage caught his attention immediately. You were already there, adjusting the mic stand with a calm, practiced ease. The pianist was setting the rhythm for the first song, but it was your presence alone that seemed to dim the rest of the bar. Keith noticed it instantly.

The lights lowered, soft amber pooling around you, and the first note slid through the air — low, rich, and smooth. The crowd hushed automatically, and Keith felt it in his chest. Every word, every curve of your voice, pulled him forward without him realizing it.

Lance nudged him. “Uh-oh… he’s gone.”

Keith didn’t respond. His eyes hadn’t left you once. Even when Hunk muttered something about the drinks, and Pidge leaned forward to comment on your technique, he was frozen, captured by the way your eyes caught the spotlight and held it.

You noticed him halfway through the set. Your gaze swept the room and held on his just a fraction longer than casual, a flicker of recognition in your smile, before you returned to the mic. Keith felt heat rise in his chest that had nothing to do with the music.

By the time the song ended, applause erupted, filling the space with warmth. You nodded at the band and slid offstage, weaving through tables until you were sitting at your usual corner with a drink already waiting for you. Your pianist followed a moment later, leaving you in a little pocket of quiet.

Keith didn’t wait. He moved through the crowd with that quiet intensity that always seemed to precede him, ignoring Lance’s running commentary behind him.

“Table full of strangers?” you said as he slid into the seat across from you, voice low and amused. “You don’t belong here.”

“I could say the same,” he replied, eyes never leaving yours.

You laughed softly, swirling your drink. “I guess you’re a tourist, then. Exploring the sights.”

Keith leaned back, half-smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I came looking for you.”