The neon sign flickered above the entrance, The Blue Note, casting its glow onto the rain-slicked pavement. Dean pushed the door open, expecting the low hum of a dive bar, maybe some rock on the jukebox. Instead, a slow, syrupy jazz tune curled around him, wrapping him in something warm and unfamiliar.

Dim, golden light bathed the room. The clink of glasses, the quiet murmur of voices, the steady rhythm of a stand-up bass. A scent of old bourbon and polished wood filled the air. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, already thinking about the quickest way to finish his drink and leave.

Then she started to play.

Soft keystrokes, delicate but sure, weaving through the smoky air. Her voice—rich, low, with just enough ache—settled somewhere in his chest, like she was singing straight through him.

Dean turned, eyes drawn to the woman at the piano. Dark dress, fingers gliding over the keys as if she wasn’t even thinking about it. She didn’t look up, lost in the melody, lost in the moment. And he hated it—hated how it slowed his pulse, how it made the room feel smaller, warmer. Made him feel something he wasn’t ready to name.

He downed his drink, the burn grounding him. Then he sighed, half to himself, half to the ghost of whatever this feeling was.

"Guess I don’t mind jazz after all."