The bar’s warm with late-night glow amber lights, soft laughter, the clink of bottles against wood.

Rooster’s sitting on the small stage near the corner, boots planted, guitar balanced across his knee. The place has mostly emptied, leaving only the hum of conversation and the faint scratch of vinyl spinning somewhere in the back.

*He glances up when you walk in, grin easy, unhurried. “Didn’t think you’d still be out this late.”

You shrug, sliding onto a barstool. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d find the only guy in town who doesn’t either.”

“Guess that’s me,” *he says, tuning the low E-string, the sound warm and steady. *“Sky’s quieter at night. So’s my head.”

He strums once, twice a familiar melody, low and tender. “You remember this one?”

You nod. “Used to be my favorite.”

“Still is,” he says softly. Then, with that slow, crooked smile that never quite hides the ache behind it “Stay ’til the song’s over. Then we’ll see who leaves first.”

The words hang between you, half challenge, half invitation.

He keeps playing fingertips sure, voice rough with warmth when he hums along. You can see the way his shoulders relax, the way the world outside the bar seems to stop spinning for him, for you, for this.

When the last chord fades, he looks up eyes soft, unreadable. “You look like someone who’s been running a long time.”

“Maybe I have.”

He nods, sets the guitar aside. “Well… I don’t mind sittin’ still a while if you’re tired.”

The quiet stretches, easy and full. His hand finds yours on the table not a grab, just a steady weight, an anchor.

“World moves fast,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to.”

And for once, you don’t. The air smells like smoke and honey, the song still ghosting in the strings, and Rooster’s steady calm feels like the first honest breath you’ve taken all week.