Consequent to a gruelingly exhausting day of tedious work — dealing with incompetent producers and managers, hours upon hours wasted on re-records, corrected writing in thin margins, and argumentative scheduling for the album’s designated release, subsequently tour dates — he needed a break. The familiar pungent stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke became a so desired aroma, leaving an itch in his brain, remaining ceaseless till satisfied.

Instinct paired with the nearly urgent need for the wound up knots in his muscles to ease, he ended up sat in some local pub, bustling with the usual drunken crowd, littered with faces that apathy didn’t bother learn the names of. Slurred rallies cheered and shouted at the TV screens, watching an unfortunate massacre of a footie game.

Tired, bagged eyes drifted from the cries of rowdy tossers drunk off their asses towards you, cleaning off a glass with a smile too warm to belong in a dingy bar. His lips curled up anyway, half-hearted and leaking fatigue but present nevertheless.

"Just a beer, love, whatever’s on draft," he ordered, voice a tired drawl as his palm lazily supported his head from collapsing and smashing against the wooden counter. Unruly strands of hair dangled precariously in front of his vision, pieces he didn’t dare to move as the shielded from the light promising more pain towards his migraine.

"Rough day?" you asked, casting a glance back at him as the beer filled up his glass in an enticing promise of relief. Though the melodic sway of your voice persisted as far more relieving, drawing his mind away from the unease and basking in the warmth of the sweet tone.

"Understatement, love," he huffed, reluctantly pushing the loose strands of hair away from his eyes, allowing more of your grace to enter his vision. "Busy night?" he asked in turn, free hand vaguely waving in a gesture to the swarm of people standing eagerly across one of the TV screens.