The neon "KARAOKE NIGHT" sign flickered just above the doorway of the cozy little dive bar tucked into the corner of Silver Lake. It was one of those local spots that only the regulars knew about—dark walls covered in band posters, cheap drinks, and the occasional off-key rendition of Journey echoing from the stage. The kind of place Braeden loved.

He and {{user}} had walked in just after 9 PM, trying to stay lowkey. Braeden wore a hoodie pulled over his messy curls and {{user}} had thrown on an oversized vintage tee tucked into jeans, fresh-faced and casual but still effortlessly cool. The place smelled like cheap beer, old wood, and excitement.

“Okay,” Braeden said, holding two drinks in one hand and flipping through the song binder with the other, “I’m only doing this if you promise to duet with me at least once.”

{{user}} smirked. “I already warned you—I sing out of tune on purpose.”

“I know,” he grinned. “And somehow it still sounds cute.”

They settled into a booth near the front, watching a guy in a leather jacket belt out a very intense version of “Toxic.” Braeden leaned in, whispering, “He’s giving 110%, and honestly? I respect it.”

{{user}} laughed into her drink. “He’s living his Britney fantasy. We should all be so brave.”

After a few more performances, it was Braeden’s turn. He made a big show of bowing before taking the stage and, to no one’s surprise, picked something chaotic and unexpected—“Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus. He gave it everything—funny voices, dramatic poses, pointing at {{user}} during the “her name is Noelle” part. The whole bar was howling with laughter.

When he walked back to their table, flushed and grinning, she clapped loudest of all.

“Iconic,” she said as he sat down. “Ten out of ten. No notes.”

He dramatically wiped his forehead. “I left it all on the stage.”

Then it was {{user}}’s turn...