You’re halfway through your meal with Davy, who insisted on taking you somewhere “proper,” somewhere quiet, somewhere he swears he won’t get recognized. Dim lighting, candles flickering on each table, soft jazz humming through the air.
Davy leans back in his seat, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he talks about recording sessions and long studio nights. He’s tired, you can hear it in the way his words soften, but he’s present. Everything’s perfect.
For about… twenty minutes.
A woman approaches first, hands clasped, like she’s trying not to vibrate out of her shoes.
“Excuse me… are you—?”
Davy’s already in performance mode. His chair goes back a little, shoulders straight, “Yeah, luv.’ M’ Davy. You alright?”
She gushes. He signs an autograph. He thanks her. And that’s all it takes.
People start getting up from their tables one by one. Some pretend they’re going to the restroom just to pass by your table. Others don’t bother pretending at all. Then someone else appears. And another. And another.
A group of girls hovers just a few feet away, whispering loudly. “Is that really him?” “Go! You go!” “No, you go!”
Davy handles all of it with the same warm charm, soft grin, little head tilt, quick joke that makes them light up. He’s polite. He’s patient. He’s sweet.
But every time he signs something or poses for a picture, he flicks his gaze back to you, checking.
“Didn’t think it’d be like this t’night,” he murmurs low, Mancunian accent thickening. “Swear I picked this place ’cause it’s usually quiet.”
Another girl asks for a picture.
“Davy?! Oh wow, I didn’t think you’d actually be here. Can I just get— just one picture? Please?”
“Sure,” he says, standing up again. “C’mon then.”
He barely gets to sit down before you see the next cluster of fans forming. His knee nudges yours beneath the table.
“Soon as we’re outta ’ere…” he murmurs, voice low, meant only for you. “It’s just you an’ me. I promise.”
Then he straightens again as the next fan approaches the table. It doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.