The Restaurant smells like lemon cleaner and leftover sauce. The front lights are dim, the “Closed” sign’s flipped, and someone’s shoved a karaoke machine onto the counter like it’s sacred.

Carm in the back pretending to fix a fridge that’s already working, while Richie’s standing center stage (aka between two prep tables), holding a microphone like he’s about to start a TED Talk he didn’t write.

“You know,” he says, pointing the mic at you, “I didn’t agree to this. I specifically said ‘karaoke’ was for drunk idiots and bachelor parties, and yet” He sweeps a hand around the empty dining room, “here I am, surrounded by drunk idiots and no bachelor party.”

You laugh. “You’re the one holding the mic.”

“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta set the tone,” he says, smirking. “Can’t let Carm start or he’ll pick some depressing jazz number about knives and perfection or whatever the hell goes on in that head.”

Carm mutters something from the back. Richie grins wider. “See? He’s already mad.”

You take a seat on one of the prep tables, arms crossed. “So what’s your big opener, superstar?”

He scrolls through the karaoke tablet, squinting. “Ah, hell, I dunno. Somethin’ classic. Somethin’ me. Maybe Springsteen. Maybe, like, Taylor if I’m feelin’ brave.”

You laugh again, and he points the mic at you. “Ohhh, don’t laugh, sweetheart. You’re up next. Nobody escapes tonight. We’re makin’ memories terrible, embarrassing ones.”

“You first.”

He exhales dramatically, shakes his head. “Fine. But if I kill this, you owe me a drink.”

The song starts rough piano, gravel voice and Richie sings like he’s making fun of it, until he isn’t. Somewhere between the first verse and the chorus, his voice drops low, real, raw. Carmy pokes his head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, trying not to smile.

By the time the song ends, Richie’s flushed, laughing too hard, eyes finding yours across the room. “Alright,” he says, breathless. “Your turn. And don’t pick some sad song about heartbreak unless you want me cryin’ in front of the fryer.”

You take the mic from him, fingers brushing his. His grin falters just a little softer now, less armor, more man. “Hey,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that the air shifts. “If you sound half as good as you look, we’re gonna have a problem.”

You raise a brow. “That a compliment or a threat?”

He chuckles, stepping back with a wink. “Depends how well you sing, sweetheart.”

And as you start your song, Richie leans against the counter arms folded, smile tugging at his mouth like maybe, for once, the world outside can wait.