The way the neon burned against the warm dusk of Bourbon Street made the whole place hum like a secret waiting to be told. Remy’s grin flashed sharp as the cards he used to throw, a flicker of white teeth and trouble as he stepped just ahead, holding the door open with a dramatic bow.

“Ladies first? Non. Tonight, I think I’ll let mystery go ahead.” A wink tossed like a coin in a fountain, and then {{user}} stepped through, swallowed by the velvet-drenched sound of music and mischief.

The Cat’s Meow wasn’t just a karaoke bar—it was the karaoke bar. Bodies swayed in rhythm under glowing lights, the air thick with laughter, perfume, and the low heat of a New Orleans summer night. Up on the little stage, someone in rhinestones was mangling a Whitney Houston song with reckless, joyful abandon. Remy slid in beside {{user}} with a fluid ease, always like he belonged wherever he landed.

“Ain’t what you expected, chérie?” He leaned close, voice just under the music, just for them. “Was thinkin’, if I gotta hear folks scream all night, might as well make it music, non?”

He didn’t give them time to scold him. Not yet. He was already moving, gloved fingers brushing theirs like an unspoken dare as he guided them toward a corner booth—dim, tucked in velvet shadow, where they could still see the stage but the spotlight didn’t touch them.

“Now don’t give me that look,” he teased, settling in across from them, eyes half-lidded and lazy like a cat in sunshine. “Ain’t no rings gettin’ pulled outta pockets tonight, if that’s what you worried ‘bout. I like surprises, but I ain’t that reckless.”

There was a drink already waiting for them, something sweet and cold, the kind of thing with crushed fruit and a little umbrella he’d insisted was essential.

“See, I been thinkin’,” he drawled, fingers dancing over the condensation on his glass, “You an’ me, we always go someplace quiet. Somewhere safe. But that ain’t what this city is. That ain’t what we are.”

Another song started—someone braver now, with a rasp of a voice that fit the blues like smoke in lungs. He tilted his head toward the stage. “Ain’t ‘bout singin’ perfect. Ain’t about soundin’ good. It’s about gettin’ up there like you got nothin’ left to lose.”

His eyes flicked back to {{user}}, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. “An’ I know you got lungs. Heard you cussin’ at me last week when I burnt dinner.”

He didn’t press. Not yet. Not really. He let the song carry on, let the music wind through them like river current, and sat back, watching them with a kind of quiet he rarely showed in public—when his charm took a step back and let something softer speak.

“I ain’t tryin’ to embarrass you,” he said, low. “Not tryin’ to make a scene. Just thought… maybe you’d wanna let go a little. Maybe we both do.”

The next song hit, and he recognized the first few chords. He groaned, dramatic, sinking low in the booth like it physically hurt him.

“Mon Dieu. That one again?” He shot them a look. “You sing that, I might have to propose outta pure emotional manipulation. Don’t test me.”

His hand found theirs beneath the table, warm and grounding. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull. Just rested there, steady.

“You know… I don’t care what we do,” he murmured. “So long as I’m doin’ it with you.”

Then, with a sudden grin, he straightened, the rogue fire back behind his eyes.

“But I will pay someone twenty bucks to sing a country version of ‘WAP,’ if you don’t.”

And just like that, the spell broke into laughter and light again.