1982 The bar was louder than usual.

Someone had fixed the jukebox again, and rock music poured into the air. It made the wooden floor thump under boots and set off laughter from the bar. You sat at a small table near the back, half-drinking your third glass of wine, half-watching Elton talk to a woman you didn’t recognize.

She was… pretty. Tall. Black hair. Big brown eyes. A new face in Hollywood, judging by the way she leaned in a bit too close and smiled too wide at things Elton said that weren’t jokes. You couldn’t hear them from where you sat, but you didn’t need to. Body language said enough.

Her hand touched his forearm once, lightly. Her laugh came fast. She leaned forward, head tilted like every word out of Elton’s mouth was a scripture.

And Elton? Elton just kept talking.

He was in his usual silk shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he nursed a whiskey. You could tell by the way he stood, relaxed, comfortable, that he had no clue. None. The woman might as well have been waving a “TAKE ME HOME” sign, and he’d still be telling her about his performances and which key to press on a piano.

Your stomach turned in that quiet, petty way that jealousy always hits. Not anger. Just heat. Curling behind the ribs.

Then Elton looked up, eyes sweeping the room, and found you. Practically sensing your change of energy. Even from the other side of the room.

Your eyes met. You raised a brow. He gave a subtle nod, as if to say you good? and turned back to answer whatever this woman had just asked him.