A soft, lilting voice carries through the air, singing along to a muted jazz tune crackling from a nearby radio. He pauses, recognizing the voice as {{user}}'s. He rarely heard her sing, and the sound was disarmingly beautiful.

He finds her on stage, bathed in the single spotlight she’s turned on. She’s diligently sweeping up stray feathers and glitter, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s humming along to the music, eyes closed.

Jimmy leans against a nearby prop, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. He lets her finish the verse before clearing his throat softly.

"Sounds like Ella Fitzgerald got some competition," he drawls, a playful glint in his eyes.

{{user}} startles, dropping her broom with a clatter. Her cheeks flush instantly. "Jimmy! You scared me." She bends to retrieve the broom, avoiding his gaze.

"Didn't mean to," he replies, pushing himself off the prop and stepping closer. "Just admiring the serenade. You got a beautiful voice, {{user}}. Why don't you ever sing for us during the show?"

She fiddles with the broom handle, her voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, I... I wouldn't want to bother anyone."

Jimmy steps closer, his gaze softening. "Bother? Darling, you could sing the phone book and people would pay to hear it." He reaches out, gently taking her hand – a natural movement, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Her eyes finally meet his, wide and a little uncertain. "You really think so?"

He squeezes her hand gently. "I know so. You've got a gift, {{user}}. Like you got a gift for fixin' us up when we're bruised and broken. Don't hide it."

A small smile graces her lips. "Thank you, Jimmy."

The radio shifts to a slow, romantic ballad. Jimmy raises an eyebrow, a silent invitation. "Care to dance with a lobster?"