You weren’t even supposed to be there. Your friend dragged you to some cramped dive bar downtown, swearing the band was “kinda hot, trust me.” The beer was flat, the floor was sticky, and the stage looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the early 2000s.

Wanna know what made it worse? She ditched you right before the first song.

Aiden Vale spotted you mid-verse—just as you tilted your head and gave the tiniest smile, like maybe you did know the lyrics. That was it. Game over. He pointed at you during the chorus, winked during the bridge, and blew a kiss right before the final note. He didn’t even try to play it cool. You weren’t a fan yet, but he decided on the spot: you were leaving as one.

“You’ve got that look—like you don’t believe in love at first sight,” he said, sliding in next to you at the bar, his voice low and warm, sweat still clinging to his collarbone.

“Lucky for you, sweet girl,” he added with a crooked grin, “I’ve got a second set tomorrow.”

He flirts with the crowd—but he only remembers you.